Son of the Son
by Bluefire Eternal
Summary: Legend-based. Eragon is transported to Camelot along with Saphira, and it turns out he's Arthur's son and and heir to the throne, despite his opinions on it. Can the Son of the Son of the Dragon save England from Mordred before the kingdom falls forever?
1. The Story's Prologue

**This has been idea rattling about in my head for a while now. Yes, I know there have been cross overs with the _Inheritance Cycle _and some versions of the King Arthur legends, but I have yet to see one were Eragon is the son of Arthur and close to the center of all the action that is slowly leading up to the fall of Camelot. Plus the idea of Saphira swallowing Mordred whole was too fun to resist :p.**

**Time-Line: In the IC-verse, this is a post-Eldest AU. For jolly ol' England, its nearing the end of Arthur's reign. He and Guenevere are middle-aged, and Mordred is already a knight stirring up trouble. Oh, Merlin's sealed away in that stupid cave. By the way, this King Arthur is strongly influenced by T. B. White's _Once and Future King _series, but with a few things from other versions of the legends and some original material of my own tossed into the mix. **

**Pairings: It's most likely going to be EragonxNausada here folks, though EragonxTrianna is a _remote _possibility. Both ArthurxGuenevere and LancelotxGuenevere are staple, of course. Oh, and some implied AryaxBlodgharm and RoranxKatrina. Murtagh may or may not get some lovin' later.... Or he could just be seduced by Morgause -shudders-**

**WARNING: Some of the versions I've read of the King Arthur legends are nice clean stories that portray Morgan simply as an evil sorceress and Mordred as a man bitter over the death of his father and eager for vengeance. Not in this story. This is based off the old legends, which means unsavory things like tyrant kings, incest, and Mordred, Arthur's bastard son by his half-sister Morgause. Oh, and while I will try not to include it much, religion does play it part in this story. Christianity was a big thing in Arthur's time, with the quest for the Holy Grail and all, and religious matters will be at least mentioned in passing. I will promise to keep it light as possible, though.**

**Disclaimer: _The Inheritance Cycle _and the legend of King Arthur are not mine. However, some of my original interpretations of some of the Arthurian characters, as well as any other original material, belongs to me. **

The following passage is taken from a yellowed journal found concealed behind several larger tomes in an old library. Its contents are controversial and go against all prior accept knowledge. Some would consider it downright blasphemous to the legends we all know and love. But is it merely fiction invented by some fanciful author? Or the story of a man that experienced the truth we never knew about? You be the judge.

_The story of King Arthur has been retold time and time again, some portions of the tale exaggerated or some of the details altered to suit the purposes or tastes of the author. Other sections have been long forgotten over the course of hundreds of years, forever lost to the fog of history. Though many have a basic idea of the legend, they do not know the complete story, the pure truth behind all those years of changes and modifications._

_How could I possibly know the truth behind it all? Why, dubious reader, I was there! Were it not for me, it seems unlikely Arthur would have have ever survived boyhood, let alone become the greatest King the world has ever known. My identity? Not important at the moment, sorry. Our main focus is on our hero and his trials and tribulations. Not trivial matters like who I am. All in good time, reader. All in good time._

_Long before Arthur, the legend truly began with a young and impulsive leader named Uther Pendragon. New to the throne, he has fallen madly in love with Queen Igraine of the north. However, the beautiful lady was already married to King Gorlois, and had borne him three daughters. _

_Unwilling to forsake his passion so easily, Uther Pendragon launched a vicious war against Gorlois. Igraine's husband charges off to meet his hotheaded rival in battle, leaving his wife secure in his other castle. Unwittingly, Gorlois had just left Igraine relatively defenseless, for Uther had planned the battle to separate him from his wife._

_Uther then sought out the help of an old friend, a wise wizard named Merlin. You see, the young King wanted to disguise himself as Gorlois to sneak into the other castle and woo Igraine while her true husband was off fighting. Naturally, Merlin was hesitant to grant such a request. He knew Uther to be reckless and foolish, especially when blinded by his all-consuming passion, and feared what would happen if he interfered in the affairs of destiny with his remarkable powers._

_But Uther Pendragon was stubborn as his namesake, and begged the great enchanter to grant his favor. After hours of beseeching and seeing his friend on his knees like a servant, Merlin's resolve crumbled. Reluctantly he consented to grant such a wish, but only on the condition that the young King would do something for him in return. Merlin failed to specify what exactly he wanted, but said he would name his demand in time. Once he did, Uther would be forced to comply. _

_Unmindful of such ominous speech, Uther happily agreed to the seemingly reasonable demand. How could he have possibly known at that moment he had put himself into the unbreakable debt of a wizard, bound to his promise by magic itself? Merlin then gave the young Pendragon the guise of Gorlois, and the ability to cast off the illusion when he chose. The wizard hoped his friend had simply needed the disguise to sneak past the castle guards and would reveal himself to Igraine. Honesty works better than lies, after all. Unfortunately, Merlin's better judgement had been outdone by his loyalty to Uther._

_Under the effects of the potent magic, Uther easily infiltrated Gorlois's supposedly impregnable fortress where he kept his queen. After all the guards wouldn't have suspected their own master, would they? As far as the denizens of the castle were concerned, their King had returned home early from a victorious battle against the enemy and was here to celebrate with his wife. _

_Entering Igraine's chambers, Uther contemplated revealing his true identity, but quickly discarded the ridiculous thought. His lust for the fair queen ran strong, over-powering his reason. What was the use of holding off the fulfilment of his desires to immediately explain his situation to Igraine and then having to persuade her to disobey her sacred wedding vows to Gorlois? That would only have wasted the little time he had to complete such an endeavour._

_"I'll tell her after it's all said and done, if I'm ready," Uther told himself. "Perhaps I won't feel so in love with Igraine after sharing her bed once. If so, then I will simply sneak out in the morning and have Merlin erase the memory of our encounter. She can then go on with her life with Gorlois, and both of us can forget such a thing ever transpired. But if my feelings are true, I shall tell all to Igraine. She deserves to know the truth, and I will understand if she scorns our relationship."_

_Out of desperation, naive Uther persuaded himself into believing such wishful thinking. Had he foreseen the incredible risks of this behaviour, the potential consequences that could have resulted in his own doom, then perhaps he would have reconsidered his choice. Blinded by passion, though, he sealed the fate of himself and Igraine._

_That night, while Igraine shared her bed with the man she believed to be her rightful husband, the true King Gerlois perished on the battlefield. _

_A messenger was instantly sent to the castle from the battlefield to tell Igraine of her husband's death, and Uther was forced to retreat during the early hours of the morning to avoid capture. When Igraine heard of the news and remembered the phantom stranger that had visited her chambers the previous eve, she was quick to put the pieces of the puzzle together. Anguished over the loss of her husband and angered that she had been so cruelly deceived by Uther Pendragon, one of her greatest enemies, the widowed queen locked herself up in her castle to grieve and seethe over the unfortunate turn of events._

_Discovering Uther's horrible transgression against their friendship, Merlin was enraged. A part of him simply wanted to retreat into the depths of the wildest woods and leave his reckless friend to stew in his own muck, but his lingering loyalty to the King and pity for the poor Queen Igraine prevented him from doing so. He had gotten them all into this mess, and it was now his responsibility to repair things as best he could._

_Appearing in Igraine's chambers with Uther, Merlin made them face the other. Uther apologized for his deception and Igraine grudingly accepted it. She was a queen without a king and male heirs, a precious position in a chaotic world where chaotic lords and barons backstabbed each other and did whatever necessary to win power, including forcing themselves upon vulnerable women in power._

_A marriage proposal was arranged between the two kingdoms, to give Uther a queen and a chance to have his heir and Igraine and her family a protector. While Igraine underwent the mandatory mourning period for King Gerlois, which meant her wedding to her new betrothed was to be postponed for several months to observe protocol, the young King Pendragon arranged marriages for the daughters of the previous marriage. They were unnecessary baggage, more burdens that complicated the already complex situation that had to be handled quickly. Morgause and Elain, the eldest of Gerlois and Igraine's daughters, were swiftly wedded to Kings. The youngest child, Morgana, disappeared the night before her own ceremony and was never seen again. Most presumed she had chosen suicide over an arranged marriage._

_But Igraine was pregnant, having conceived Uther's child the one night they had shared that bed under his treacherous deception._

_The child in her womb was vulnerable. Because of the mourning period, there was no possible way for the parents to marry in time for the birth of their offspring to not seem suspicious. King Gorlois had also been at the other castle for several months prior to his death, leaving no opportunity for he and Igraine to be together and thuis no chance to pass the illegitimate child off as the murdered King's. Merlin had been forced to erase the recollection of the disguised Uther visiting Igraine, for at that time the true King Gerlois had been slaughtered on the battlefield._

_Luckily, Merlin had a solution, no matter how cruel it was. While Igraine did her best to keep to herself and avoid contact with her hand-maidens, concealing her pregnancy from them, she and the wizard and Uther made their plans. When the baby was born, it would be spirited off by Merlin to a trusted comrade who would raise the child as one of his own. Uther and Igraine could then marry in peace, and then produce legitimate heirs that stood actual chances of inherited the throne. Meanwhile their bastard child could grow up in relative comfort and happiness, but never no of his or her royal lineage or ever be given the throne._

_Igraine delivered her child in time, a handsome little son she named Arthur. Holding her sleeping child in her arms, she felt loathe to relinquish him to the wizard and the family she would place him with. She already fiercely loved Arthur, and would have gladly admitted to her infidelity, however unintentional, to be able to be with him for a while longer. Even if the punishment for adultery was to be burned at the stake. For her beloved child, the heat of the flames would be worth just a few more moments with him._

_"But would about Arthur?" Merlin demanded of her when he sensed her reluctance to give him up. "You may be willing to face execution, but can you consign your infant son to the fate that awaits him if you reveal the truth? Born out of wedlock, he is technically a bastard, even if you and Uther are to be married soon. As an illegitimate child he will never be able to wear the crown or hold a respectable position. The law prohibits it. Not to mention how he shall be scorned and hated by his people. Could you condemn innocent Arthur to such a fate, Igraine?"_

_Tearfully, Igraine had handed over her baby. Heartbreaking as it was, it was for Arthur's own good. There was no way in hell she would doom her precious son to such a life, not if he had a better alternative and a 'true' family out there eager to accept him. Even if it meant she would never be able to see him again. So long as Arthur was safe and secure, her selfish desires could be ignored for his sake._

_Shortly after the separation of mother and child, King Uther Pendragon and Queen Igraine officially married. Though they had reconciled and lived a relatively content life, the couple were unable to produce another child, a suitable heir for the throne. Their subjects whined about the lack of an heir, complaining about how insecure Uther's reign was without one. None knew that their rulers did indeed have a secret son. _

_Five years passed, and Igraine at last died. For months she had been withering away from some mysterious illness, though I suspect the poor thing was still mourning over the loss of Arthur. Uther was soon to follow her in death, assassinated by one of the treacherous barons that hungered for power and his domain. Since there was no true heir to ascend the throne, the corrupt noble claimed it as his own. Only a Pendragon could have opposed his usurpation, and Uther had been the last. Igraine's daughters and their children had not been considered as heirs for Morgause and Elain had signed away their claims to power when they had married their husbands and agreed to the contracts Uther had commissioned._

_The night of the corrupt baron's coronation as King, Merlin appeared in the courtyard of one of the capitol's churches. With his great magic he summoned a stone right into the yard's center and plunged a fine sword into it, all the way up to the hilt._

_"Only the true King of England can pull the sword from this stone," the mighty sorcerer had announced to the bewildered spectators that had witnessed his miracle. "He who does is the rightful ruler who shall bring a golden age upon this land."_

_Of course the baron had immediately strutted over the stone, assuming he could pull the sword out as easily as a knife from butter. Presumptuous of him, don't you think? Naturally the blade did not budge for him, nor for anyone. People came from miles around to try and take the sword from its earthly scabbard, but none could move it. Eventually the sword was all but forgotten as struggles for power began to tear apart the country and people were just seeking a strong source of leadership, let alone the true heir of Uther Pendragon._

_You see, while the baron had ascended to the throne, many rebelled against his rule for he was a true tyrant. Peasants revolted frequently, only to be slaughtered into submission again and again by his mercanary armies. Lords and knights and barons that had faithfully served King Uther now believed they could form their own kingdoms or try to take over England for themselves. Chaos assumed all over the place, though it was dreadful in England._

_Far away from the tumult in a peaceful estate in the Forest Sauvage, Arthur grew up under the steady hand of an old knight named Sir Ector. Sir Ector did he best to keep his young charge and his own son, Kay, out of the confusion of the constant war. Though Kay thought of Arthur as his best friend a sort of adopted brother, he was the only one to be trained as a knight, as custom dictated. _

_Arthur was dismayed at this, but he was tutored personally by a wise old wizard that taught him about all sorts of things. Aye, reader, this wizard's name was Merlin. Together the wizard and the unwitting prince went on many marvelous adventures, Merlin's unpredictable magic providing valuable lessons that stayed with Arthur for the rest of his life and helped him to be great ruler he would one day become._

_More years crawled by, and Kay became a knight like his father. Arthur, the orphan ward of Sir Ector, was Kay's squire. Young and eager to prove himself at a tournament in the baron's honor, Kay dragged his squire off to the capitol of Camelet to pit himself against other knights. In his haste the young fool left his only sword at home, and then made Arthur rush off to find him another one before the tournament started._

_Finding no sword he could purchase from a weaponssmith or borrow (seemingly everyone in town had somehow packed themselves into the grandstands to observe the competition) the frantic Arthur did not ask questions when he discovered a sword plunged deep into a stone, left all alone in the middle of a church courtyard. Desperation kept from noticing the oddness of the situation; he felt only relief that he had stumbled across a blade for Kay in time. _

_Surprisingly, the sword was easy to draw from the stone, as if passing through thin air rather than solid rock. _

_The moment the sword had been completely removed from its stone, Arthur felt an incredible feeling come over him. Bathed in warm sunlight, he felt strength pour into his body and make him into somebody else. At the moment the tender squire to a newly made knight died. In his place a glorious and powerful being was born inside of him, a person Arthur did not recognize but was eager to become acquainted with. Possessed by a greater force, Arthur dashed back off to the tournament, having another thing in mind than just merely giving Sir Kay a new sword._

_The few passerby that had witnessed the miraculous event were quick to inform everybody about how they had personally watched a mere **boy **draw the sword from the stone. The same sword that could only be wielded by the **one true king.**_

_Meanwhile, the baron-turned-King was idling in the throne that had been carried over so he could observe the tourament comfortably. Bored by the usual swordplay and charges with lances, his gaze had shifted from the entertainment to inspect the grubby faces of his peasants. Catching a glimmer out of the corner of his eye, the baron turned to look closely at it, and thus stared down at his doom._

_There, charging right toward him out of the crowd, was the same sword he had failed to draw from its bothersome earthly hilt all those long years ago. Brandishing it was a young man barely older than eighteen. One with narrowed blue eyes that were chillingly similar to those of the dead Queen Igraine. And with the fiery red hair and unmistakable features of a Pendragon._

_"Look!" a woman shrieked. "It's Uther returned from the dead to have his vengeance against his murderer!"_

_"It's a Pendragon!" another yelled. "The Son of the Dragon!"_

_"The sword from the stone!" several chorused in unison. "The rightful King has returned."_

_Spurred on by Arthur's appearance, the crowd was quick to rally. Tired of the corruption and oppression and of their tyrant baron-king, the common folk rose up to defend their new champion. While the usurper's men carried weapons and wore armor, they were overwhelmed by force of sheer numbers. His guards trying to beat back the mob of revolting subjects, the baron-king attempted to sneak out before being spotted, to leave England behind and garner power somewhere else...._

_Only to have Arthur run him down and end all of the pain and suffering he had caused with one deft stroke of the magic sword._

_King Arthur Pendragon claimed his father's throne, and went about restoring what the baron-king had destroyed. He brought the rebelling barons and lords under his control, quelling all opposition within his domain. Many swore fealty to him while those that didn't were made to. His kingdom secure, Arthur set his sights on the chaos that surrounded him, and began his conquests and alliances with the other Kings. _

_As promised, Arthur Pendragon brought England into a golden age, the likes of which had never been seen before. Thugs and bandits no longer prowled the roads. Monsters like dragons and orgers were eradicated, no longer terrorizing villages and carrying off maidens and children to devour. Corrupt barons and rogue knights were stamped out, and Great Britian enjoyed a long era of peace and heroism._

_Of course, there is much more to King Arthur's story than this. I have only left you the important background knowledge, for without this history our hero would never have come to be. Just beneath the superficial surface of matters, trouble was brewing for Arthur. He was no longer threatened by rival Kings and barons, but by greedy and ambitious people right within his own halls. Those he trusted that only wanted him dead. _

_The version of the legend you all know says King Arthur is killed by such forces, the golden age he brought on violently ended by warfare caused by envious and corrupted people that managed to poison all he worked for. And supposedly the Son of the Dragon died without an heir, his only child being the mad son by his own half-sister Morgause._

_But is this version true? No. Trust me, I was there for it all. Arthur had another son than that monster, a true Pendragon worthy for the legendary throne. One that might have been able to preserve his father's labors and perhaps even contribute to improving the nation even further. _

_You have heard the history of the story, the forces that influenced King Arthur and will also affect both of his sons, villain and champion. _

_Here King Arthur has already formed his England and lives happily Camelot with Queen Guinevere. The knights had already slayed the brutal monsters and rescued the damsels from their distress. The Holy Grail has been found and Merlin sealed away in his cave, due to his own infatuation of a traitorous little girl that only wanted him out of the picture. The Son of the Dragon is past is prime, graying and aging as even heroes and Kings do._

_For you see, our legend no longer followers the Son of the Dragon. But rather the Son of the Son...._

**Yes, the page is in italics as it is all 'taken out' of an old book. Don't worry, all the story will be told normally. And no more long summaries of the King Arthur legend. Any parts that need elaboration will be explained later on when it is needed. I have only included in the basic information of King Uther and his little episode in this prologue as it is the actions of he and his generation that set the field for Arthur and Mordred and Lancelot and everyone else. Without them, there would be no story! Plus all of this information (both original and derived from other versions of the legend) is important to the story, so it not just useless filler. **

**Next chapter: Guinevere has a history of miscarriages and stillborns and has not yet produced an heir for Arthur. Is that about to change? And will a fellow new mother be as lucky?**

**1. Morgana is the name Morgan le Fay will be most often called by. She was originally normal, like her sisters, but her desperation to evade marriage caused her to accept her inhuman powers and use them to escape. **

**2. Both Uther and Igraine are dead in this fic. Igraine died of a broken heart from the loss of Arthur and Uther was assassinated by a greedy baron that became King in his stead. In an act of poetic irony, the same baron is later killed by Arthur, Uther's son. Ah, I love old stories.**

**3. Uther's surname was 'Pendragon.' Legend says that his brother saw a comet in the shape of a dragon one night and took its name as his own, because it was a sign. When the brother later died, Uther took the name for himself. While being a Pendragon himself, Arthur is also sometimes called 'Son of the Dragon' in some legends. Theoretically any legitimate child of his (I don't count Mordred, 'cause he's evil) could be called the 'Son of the Son' for he is the son of the Son of the Dragon. Although 'Rider of a Dragon' would be a more appropriate title for Eragon, I suppose, or 'Slayer of the Shade.'.... I'll stop now.**


	2. The Final of the Sons

**Disclaimer: The legends of King Arthur and _the Inheritance Cycle _do not belong to me. However, all original material does, like my own interpretations of characters and events from the legends. **

Agony consumed her entire being, and nothing but the ingrained restraint of her noble tutelage kept her from screaming shrilly. Large as the castle at Camelot was, the halls would still ring with her pained shrieks, should she unleash them. Guinevere was the queen, wife of the noble and wise King Arthur. She had a duty to uphold, an unspoken vow to never show weakness in front of the subjects that depended upon the continued strength of herself and her husband. Not even labor could make her break such an oath of solidarity. If she could not endure childbirth, what would stop her composure from crumbling if she received news that she was suspected of adultery or that Arthur had perished on the battlefield?

Beyond that all-consuming haze, Guinevere was dimly aware that one of her hand-maidens was lightly dabbing her red face with a wet cloth to rid it of the sweat. Seemingly far-off, a distant voice was murmuring encouragement, coaxing her own through the pain. The Queen of England squeezed her eyes tight, trying to forget it all as she concentrated on more important matters.

She had been married to Arthur for ten years, and she herself was swiftly approaching her thirtieth birthday while he had already passed his thirty-seventh. Come the first year of their marriage, hopes had been high that an heir would be soon produced. Many even speculated that she would bear Arthur at least three healthy sons by the time her fertile period had ended.

Slowly, seasons had crawled by, and still there was no glimpse of an heir on the horizon. Rumors were quick to circulate that either Arthur or Guinevere were barren. Advisers had urged their master to annul his marriage and take another wife before he became too old.

Very few people knew that Guinevere had been pregnant five times. Her and Arthur's greatest efforts had resulted only in a stillborn daughter, two misscarriages, and two sons that had lived dreadfully brief lives.

During the early period of their time together, it was imperative to keep Guinevere's pregnancies secret. King Arthur's reign had not yet been secured, and the brutal rulers that refused to submit to his sovereignty would not hesitate to better their chances of victory by assassinating a pregnant queen or her newborn child. Infant sons would have been the most prone, and so she had kept to herself during those nerve-wracking times, fearing her unborn offspring at every waking moment. Every corner held a dagger waiting to stab into her belly. Every meal contained a poison to neutralize both mother and child.

Discretion had been her ally. Large dresses with layers of petticoats and adornments had shielded her swollen abdomen from prying eyes. Healers that inspected her health and maidens that tended to her needs were sworn to secrecy on pain of torture and execution.

Despite this care, it seemed the long confinement to cramped rooms, away from fresh air and exercise, seemed to only tax her unborn offspring of their health. Or perhaps it was the constant stress she was under, too much for her poor children to bear. Either way, Queen Guinevere had suffered her first miscarriage during those horrible months. A year later, a daughter had been dead, her life over before she even departed the womb. (Guinevere had named the tiny thing Igraine, after her paternal grandmother. Let the babe be buried with dignity and a name to be engraved into her casket.)

Toward the end of those frightening times, Llacheu Pendragon had been delivered. He had been the son all of England had been anticipating, but still his presence had been kept secret for fear of attempted retaliation against him. Shortly after his birth, the newborn had caught a terrible cold from the drafts of the chamber. (Why had her maidens not been more vigilant in tending to the coals? A warm fire may have driven that blasted sickness away.) Five days later, King Arthur's young heir had joined his sister in the tomb of their ancestors.

Even when Arthur was hailed as the greatest king of Great Britain, death did not seem to relent from constantly claiming their children. Guinevere had another miscarriage, though her subjects believed she had been only inflicted with an ailment.

When Guinevere had become pregnant for a fifth time, she and Arthur agreed she be sent to a private estate in the country. There she could enjoy the fresh air and wander around freely without fear of discovery. By then the people had already become exhausted of the lack of an heir, and their queen had no wish to disappoint them with another dead infant. Or have this babe bear the scrutiny and attention of thousands so early in life.

At that private estate, Arthur II (affectionately dubbed 'Artie' by his doting nursemaids) had been delivered. Unlike Igraine, he had been born live. And while Llacheu had arrived during the merciless snows and winds of winter, Artie had come during the warm season of summer.

Months had passed, and Artie had slowly turned from a happy newborn to a gurgling and giggling babe. Toddling around precariously on pudgy legs, he had shown his temerity and adventuresome personality since a young age. Though he was kept secret until a more suitable age to be introduced to England, both of his parents were giddy with hope. Finally, it seemed as if they had been blessed with the healthy child they had been praying desperately for.

Until fifteen months of age. Sore and tired after a day of chasing after her restless son, Guinevere had entrusted his care in the hands of a trustworthy nursemaid, Jane, that thought of him as her own son. She had then gone off for well-deserved relaxation via a long soak in a hot bath, ready to resume her maternal duties after a brief respite from lively Artie. But then she had dozed off in the lulling water, and her maidens had decided to allow her to sleep. (Let the queen have a proper rest from that child, had been the inexperienced reasoning of all the childless young women.)

Jane had burst into the room about an hour later, her sobs waking the bewildered queen from her nap. Tearfully and stammering between her gasps, she explained that she had left the young prince unattended so as to 'converse' with a charming cook. Unsupervised by watchful elders, Artie had wandered off toward the kennels. There half-wild boar-dogs were kept, housed at the remote location for the safety of all involved. Arthur had been inclined to dispose of the dangerous beasts, but had no done so out of some pity. He had moved them to the estate, and had promptly forgotten him before sending Guinevere to live there.

The unfortunately clever boy he was, Artie had somehow managed to get himself into the kennel. There ferocious hounds, excited by the scent of tender meat and the kill they had been denied for well over a year, had been waiting to strike. When Jane and the cook had managed to wrest the dogs away, the young heir to the throne had been beyond saving.

"You would not recognize him, your Majesty," Jane had protested when Guinevere had insisted upon viewing his mutilated remains. "Best remember him as the chubby and happy cherub he was, bless his innocent soul. Do not tarnish your cherished memories with such an incomprehensible sight that will only plague you as nightmares."

Stricken as she was, Guinevere's only response was to sink into deep depression. For hours she soft relentlessly, the pity of her nursemaids was poor comfort. Only her loyal knight or her patient king could have soothed her bereaved soul. But Lancelot was off on another of his noble quests, and Arthur was miles away in Camelot, having not yet received the message of his only child's gruesome demise. She thought nothing of anger or punishing the ones responsible; but only wept bitterly and called Artie's name as if she could summon him back from beyond the veil of death.

Later, when the initial agony of her son's death subsided slightly, her mourning ceased as the grieving and heartbreak became mixed with pure fury. With the rage of a lioness, Guinevere had stormed through the estate, roaring for the nursemaid Jane to report to her. Such carelessness while watching the future King of England was surely punishable, surely such disregard for a child that required constant supervision could not be so easily forgiven and forgotten. Guinevere thirsted for blood.

But Jane had fled the estate hours earlier. During the bewilderment and fear shortly after the prince's death, she had managed to scurry beneath usually-vigilant noses and escape before she could be apprehended. Jane, a plain young woman unremarkable in just about any way save her affection for Artie, had entirely vanished.

The cook was not blamed for the incident, it was not his fault Jane had neglected her duties so wrongly. Despite this, he resigned in disgrace, unable to face the queen after being partly responsible for the death of her precious Artie. Likewise the kennel master, the one that would have been carefully presiding over those vicious brutes had he not suddenly take ill and been unable to find a replacement, blamed himself for being unable to snatch his prince away from the danger in time. Guilt eating away at him, he had personally disposed of those dangerous beasts once and for all and had quietly retired to a monastery in hopes of one day redeeming himself.

Either way, Prince Arthur Pendragon II was dead. Several days later, Guinevere had been among the mourning procession that had escorted the little casket of her little son to Camelot. The city he was not supposed to return to until he was ready to handle the responsibilities of Crown Prince. There the people of England at last discovered their queen's pregnancy and the son she had borne, and of his cruel death. Stricken by this great loss, the gossip and the biting tongues of the court had not stung her during her period of mourning. As if it did anything to relieve the agony that clawed at her heart.

Artie was laid to rest in the Pendragon tomb alongside his brother and sister. King Arthur and his wife had decided to keep their births secret. What was the use if both were dead and unable to inherit the throne? From there on, Guinevere's pregnancies were made public knowledge. If all the care and precautions could not save Artie, then why bother with any future offspring? Should any survive, if would have been by God's mercy. Matters like these were beyond human intervention.

_God punishes me justly, _Guinevere thought to herself, now no longer unable to drudge herself up from the pains of the past in favor of the physical yet bearable pains of labor. _Three children ripped from me before they stood the most remote chances of survival. Igraine dead before she had ever inhaled her first breath. Llacheu stolen away by the colds of winter and dull flames. Artie taken after I had become attached, had time to love him and believe him to survive to adulthood. _

Her Lord was punishing her for her transgressions against the sacred vow of marriage, Guinevere had known that after Artie's death. How many of those children had been illegitimate, conceived during some clandestine meeting between her and the best knight of the Round Table? Would Artie have one day grown to bear an unmistakable resemblence to Lancelot, just like the knight's other bastard son, Galahad, did? Perhaps God was only concealing the truth from her people, the ones that would not hesitate to execute her for cheating on her rightful husband. Rescuing her children before they had to deal with the possibility of being bastards, stripped of their respect and claims to the throne. Forever reminding Guinevere she was not fit to be a mother to a child of either man.

_This baby shall suffer a similar fate. Though all of England prays it will survive, I know better. It is dead like Igraine or sickly and soon to depart to Heaven like Llacheu. If I am that blessed. Or perhaps this infant shall be stolen from me when all believed he truly stood a chance of making it._

Suddenly as the pain of labor had appeared, its roar faded into a dull sensation of unpleasantness. The murmuring of the hand maidens ceased, and for a brief moment utter silence reigned in the chamber.

The beautiful queen squeezed her eyes shut, and felt wetness that was not the sweat of her efforts run down her crimson face. _Another dead before it was born. A second lost heir for the kingdom to mourn over._

Then a deafening cry split the air, loud as a clap of thunder in the stillness. Guinevere opened her eyes, stunned by the sheer strength behind the wails. When Llacheu had been born, his cries had already been reedy and tinged with weakness. This child's lungs were strong as any, a promising sign to even her bitter ears.

Leaning back weakly against her pillows, the mother watched as the midwife cleaned and dried her squalling newborn. After inspecting it for any abnormalities or signs of illness, she wrapped the baby in swaddling blankets and handed him back to Guinevere. Tired but satisfaction visible upon her face, the midwife then inclined her head respectfully to her leader.

"Congratulations, your Majesty. You and your King Arthur have a mighty little son with the lungs of a lion. And our kingdom has its heir at last."

Beaming despite herself, Guinevere embraced her newborn son warmly. Her maternal instincts swift to return, she brushed her hand softly against his crinkled forehead. At the reassuring touch of his mother, the baby boy quieted, blinking up at her with big blue eyes.

Was this child a son of Lancelot or Arthur? With this one, Guinevere was uncertain. During the horrible weeks after Artie's untimely death, she had turned to any distraction to help keep her mind away from her son and help ameliorate her fathomless grief. She and the King of England had both sought to forget in their bed, while Lancelot did his best to provide comfort in his own secret ways.

_It doesn't matter. No matter he be the child of the mighty Son of the Dragon or the bastard of a French knight, he carries my blood as well. You will always be my child, little one. My little Amhar. _

Amhar, where had she gotten the name? Igraine had simply been named after her possible maternal grandmother, and Llacheu had been named after some distant ancestor of Uther Pendragon. Amhar had been the name of one of King Leodegrance's forefathers, perhaps his great-grandfather or great-great-grandfather. Either way, the name seemed suited for this youngest son.

"Prince Amhar Pendragon," Guinevere declared to the midwife and the nurse maids that were now cooing over her infant. "Let all of England know his name. First and foremost, send a message to his proud father, who fights against the Turkish invaders of Europe in the far east. King Arthur deserves to know he has a new son to one day inherit his kingdom."

"I shall spread the news as soon as possible, my Queen. Though I informed the King he was to be a proud father in a few month's time to a new son before he set off to battle." All heads in the room turned to the speaker in astonishment, surprised to see a wrinkled and ancient prune of a man standing in the doorway. His hair was pure white, and the beard he had allowed to grow ridiculously long reached almost down to his knees. Wearing a peculiar assemble of star-spangled blue robes and a pointed hat, he gave the appearance he had long since gone senile, something even his biggest supporters had begun to suspect. This man was a wizard, sometimes hailed as the strongest in all of the world, and a welcome friend of England. His name was Merlin, old and trusted confidant of King Arthur himself.

Narrowing her green eyes slightly, Guinevere pulled Amhar closer to herself, as if to shield him from this man. She had never been a big fan of Merlin, though in the early days his eccentric personality and unconvential opinions had been strangely endearing to her. Initially she had viewed him only as a harmless elder, one that had been a mighty enchanter during his long-ago prime.

Then Guinevere had discovered that Merlin's powers had not yet completely deserted him in his old age. Though his abilities had greatly diminished, the experiments he performed in his tower showed he had some magical prowess left to him. Some had even hailed him as having clairvoyant powers, the gift to glimpse into the future and see what it would bring long before it actually occurred. A talent he used to entertain visiting knights and dignitaries with small but accurate tidbits about their own personal destinies.

_Standing before me is a wizard that is not yet as senile as he appears, _she thought warily to herself. _One that could have forewarned me of Llacheu's illness and allowed me to prepare for his early arrival during the cold winter. Could have warned me to keep a closer eye on Artie. Neglected to due so out of reasons I have no desire to understand. _

"Leave us," she curtly ordered her maidens and the midwife. "I wish to speak with Wizard Merlin in private. Besides, you have some news to deliver to the people of England."

Curtsying respectfully and mumbling their affirmatives, the women hastily exited from the room. All knew of their mistress's notorious temper and knew not to cross her when she got into one of her moods. They compared her nature to a lioness's, though she lashed out with words when spited. As far as the hand maidens were concerned, Queen Guinevere's tongue could be just as sharp as claws.

Merlin deftly moved to the side to allow the women past, then quietly closed the door behind them. Once their privacy had been secured, the empty smile that usually adorned his face was quickly exchanged for one of sane sobriety. The clueless look of eternal bewilderment vanished from his gaze was replaced by a glint that turned his blue eyes to calculating shards of ice. Guinevere was not fazed by such a change of character, but she now knew deep down why the enchantress Morgan le Fay was still too scared to approach Camelot. Merlin was still a formidable force not easily dealt with.

"I know you have no love for me, Queen Guinevere, but I beg you to temporarily set aside your previous grudges. This is not the time for them." Merlin took a few tentative steps forward, arms extended as if beseeching for her compliance.

Instantly the woman's eyes narrowed into emerald slits of hatred, and Merlin's approached toward her bed halted. Sensing the negative energy emanating from his mother and terrified of it, Amhar began to whimper. Guinevere's glare vanished, and she rocked her son gently to calm him. Throughout it all, she never took her intense gaze off of the old wizard.

"I see no reason to accept your proposal, Merlin," she answered mildly, though the sharp under current was easily detectable. "You had the foresight to tell Arthur he would be the father of a son by the time when he returned from his campaign when he didn't even know I was with child at the time. Yet you neglected to warn me of the fates that have befallen my children. Were it not for your forgetfulness, two sons would be standing beside me to welcome a new little brother into the world. Perhaps even a daughter elder than all of them. Why should I listen to you now, after three babies rot in their tomb because of you?"

Sighing, Merlin turned his head downward, unable to bear her accusing gaze. "Powerful as I am, I am not a god," he conceded quietly. "Even during the glory days of my youth, my gift of viewing into the future was unreliable. Visions came to me in fragmented glimpses, and often I have no idea of how to interpret them. Especially in my advanced age, they seem to me more like the hallucinations of a dying mind instead of true glimpses into the unknown future. Often by the time I understand them, it is far too late to act."

Holding Amhar, Guinevere eyed the wizard skeptically. "You have just admitted your unreliable visions to me. Why should I believe the warning you are now about to deliver to me? You may have misinterpreted it completely. It may not even be about myself or my son!"

"Visions are fickle things that do their best to hide their truths from me," Merlin replied. "With Igraine, I sensed she was only cold. Since the time was winter, I thought she was merely feeling the drafts of the castle. It had never occurred to me she had perished in the womb by some disease that strikes unborn children. The same sort of occurrence happened with Llacheu and then little Arthur, God rest all three of their innocent souls. With Prince Amhar, I received something far more potent than a short glimpse of his fate."

The Queen of England shuddered, trying to contain the feelings that the mere mention of her elder children drudged up. "A prophecy," she whispered in awe and fright. "The same sort of thing that drove you to place that sword in the stone so many years ago. You somehow knew Arthur would one day return to Camelot to reclaim his father's throne and knew that he would require proof of his lineage. Thus you supplied the blade only the true King of England could draw."

Merlin nodded somberly. "Last night, when you first went into labor, I received a prophecy that mainly regards your final child." Seeing Guinevere's astonished look he sighed. "Aye, final. In several weeks time you will come down with a grim sickness you can not prevent. You will recover, but at the cost of your fertility."

"I can live with that," the woman said briskly. "But what about Amhar?"

"You have a decision to make, your Grace, upon the fate of this son. What you decide will ultimately decide the fate of your entire family, as well as that of England itself. Here is the prophecy I was given, the one I have no doubt concerns all of the Pendragon line." Merlin cleared his throat, then recited his lines in an ominous voice that made Guinevere shudder at the finality of it.

_"Four pupeeters and four marionetts shall decide England's fate,_

_Before the clock strikes one minute too late._

_From the wizard's greatest hope shall four little lives be lit,_

_To redeem and condemn those as they see fit._

_One each to their separate masters four,_

_Connected by blood yet divided by the sins of before._

_The first to the wild misty mountains of the north,_

_Where darkness and madness shall be called forth._

_The second shall be stolen and twisted from his eternal sleep,_

_Beware the one believed to be the meek and docile little sheep. _

_The third to the untamed woods of the faerie's deepest glen,_

_To be raised to go against those he once deemed friend._

_The final is the greatest of them all, the source of relief_

_He can provoke total war or at last end the centuries of grief._

_Born from the Dragon's Son, he can stay or depart for lands unknown_

_To be saved from those that wish to corrupt him down to the bone._

_Look for his return, two Dragons soaring proud in the blue sky,_

_To end the chaos and lift the wrongfully condemned back up high._

_The final Son of the Son is the only one able to save us from times most dire,_

_Or else damn us to the burning and cruel flames of the kindled hellfire._

_But all hope is not yet lost if he should at first stray,_

_For half of his soul and a relative lost can be his saving grace._

_Redeemer of England, he shall inherit his noble sire's crown_

_And send the elaborate chain of hatred and corruption tumblin' down."_

Queen Guinevere remained silent, pondering over the prophecy she had just heard. Green eyes dark with rumination, she glanced down at Amhar and back up at Merlin. For a brief moment a look of wild desperation crossed her beautiful features as the realization of his true intentions dawned on her. Her face became like that of a lioness willing to kill to protect her cubs, her thoughts driven by a maternal and primal urge to keep her young safe at all costs.

Then, just as quickly as it had emerged, that hidden half of Guinevere's personality sunk like a rock beneath dark waves. Resignation dominated her features, green eyes solemn with the same look that haunted elder rulers until the end of their days.

"The final descendant of the Son of the Dragon, it can only mean this last son of mine." The Queen of England stared intensely at Merlin, daring him to deny her answers. "He is to leave the land of his birth and depart for an unknown land, where evil can not find him. Should he stay here with me, not even Arthur can prevent the corruption that will turn him into a terrible monster like the baron that ruled here previously." She looked beseechingly up at the wizard, though deep in the heart she already knew the response to her final question. "Is there no way to avoid this?"

"Not without forsaking Amhar's soul," Merlin remarked with a sigh. "Prophecies like these are straight from the powers above us, and are completely unpreventable, despite our best efforts to change fate." He smiled wanly. "Which is way I make no effort to flee from Camelot while I still have a chance. I predicted my own demise shall come from a fair maiden named Nimue that shall infatuate me. Besotted with her as I will one day be, I will not recognize her treachery until she has sealed me into a cave for all eternity."

Guinevere supressed a sigh of exasperation. Surely the wizard didn't mean to provoke her into that old argument again?

"Why not leave? Morgan le Fay has no doubt retreated into the fairies' realm because of you, and is unlikely to show her face in these parts ever again for several centuries or so. You have been loyal to my husband since he was but a boy, Wizard Merlin. No one will begrudge you if you wisely chose to go into a well-deserved retirement."

"Tempting as it may be, Nimue or another traitorous creature like here will stumble across me eventually," the old man replied cheerfully. "I'm willing to face my end like a man. Why not? I've lived a good life, traveled to places you can't even comprehend and performed feats of magic many would deem miracles. Better to die a tricked fool than senseless and senile in a bed." His voice once again lost that merry tone as he turned the conversation back to the new prince. "Do not worry, you Majesty. Prince Amhar shall be safe where is going. To a realm where none of have heard of the conquests of King Arthur Pendragon or the heroic feats of his noble Knights of the Round Table. There he shall be safe until he is able to return home to Camelot."

"By then my son will be a strong and handsome man, an unrecognizable stranger to even his mother," Guinevere pointed out. "How will I will be able to identify him as my own flesh and blood from amongst the throngs of imposters that will no doubt swarm to the castle to try and wrest the crown from its rightful heir? Or that Amhar will ever come back to me at all?"

"Because the Pendragons are tied to England like all true monarchs are to their kingdoms. When Arthur was sent to Sir Ector all those years ago, how do else did I predict he would return to inherit Uther's throne? Do not worry about the prince proving his lineage, my Queen. This is the last elaborate scheme I shall ever play out, and I thought it out to perfection. Believe me, you'll know Amhar when he arrives."

The fair queen stroked her son's cheek, her tender gaze drinking up the last few memories of him she would have for the many years to come. "Who will raise him? I will not have my child grow up to become a pampered and selfish brat that thinks only for himself and not of the needs of his people. Nor a weak and gullible fool that will only serve as a figurehead by those that wish to manipulate him into serving their bidding."

"Prince Amhar will be raised by a woman named Selena," Merlin told her. "Rest assured, she is the best candidate for a surrogate mother. He will know he is adopted and will always long for his real parents, though he will come to love Selena as the mother he knew was unable to keep him. Mark my words, his upbringing shall make him so much like his father, the King. Not to mention his knowledge in swordplay and magic will be impressive by all standards."

Guinevere frowned disapprovingly at this final statement, and for good reason. Magic had brought England nothing but trouble. Morgan le Fay's meddlesome actions and the witches and enchanted monsters that had once ravaged her kingdom and terrorized her innocent subjects were proof of that. Why bother poisoning Amhar's mind with such corrupt abilities in the first place?

"Magic is not all bad, my Queen, just look at me." The old enchanter offered her a half-smile. "Besides, it runs deep and powerful in his blood, as it has in his family for generations. Morgana's transformation into one of the immortal fay is proof of such strength. It is best young Amhar get a could handle on it early, before it builds up inside and turns against him."

"Arthur didn't inherit the gift from his mother," Guinevere argued reasonably. "If he does not have it, why does our son do?"

"Of course the King received his mother's gift, all three of his half-sisters did as well. Morgana --or, as I suppose she should now be called, Morgan le Fay-- is the strongest sorceress of the age. Morgause gets along decently. And Elaine? Well, Elaine has a weak form of magic." Merlin shrugged at the queen's arched brows. "Require proof? Excalibur is a magic sword capable only of someone that can match its power. Had the King been merely a good ruler, then his legendary blade would not have accepted him as its master, nor would it have even been offered to him."

Holding Amhar to her bosom in a final embrace, the grieving mother relished in that final tender moment with her child. For his own good, she was relinquishing him to another woman better qualified to care for him. England was not safe, nor any land that knew of Arthur's power and how a ransomed young son could be used as leverage to get demands met. Let her precious baby boy grow up safe and sound in a faraway realm and let him return when the time was ripe. Guinevere knew of the Gaelic peoples that still loathed Arthur for his father's treatment of Igraine, and had not forgiven him for Uther's despicable transgression against their race. No, it was best Amhar was raised away from all those that thirsted for his innocent blood to be spilt to make up for the crimes of his ancestors.

"Goodbye, my little son. May God guide you back here safely one day, a just and wise man worthy of being the next King of England. Know that your mother loves you more than anything else in the whole world." Giving Amhar a gentle kiss, she gently and reluctantly transferred the drowsy child over to Merlin.

Upset at the movement, Amhar began to wail in protest, but the wizard pacified him by murmuring softly to him until his cries ceased. "Don't worry, my Queen. I promise you, Amhar and your husband and yourself shall all be a family again, one day. But now is not the time for any of you."

"My husband? What shall I tell him? And what of our subjects, who were fiercely hoping and praying for an heir to their throne that would survive to inherit it?"

"Arthur already knows. I told him at the same time I revealed he would be father to a new son before he set off for his campaign against the invaders. Knowing the danger that lurks behind every corner, he took the matter quite well." Of course, handling the matter meant at first punching his trusted friend right in the face and then threatening him with banishment. But even such an outburst was mild, considering the circumstances of having to forsake one's own child for its own good. "As for England? Their future King will be back one day. Leave that matter to me."

Child in hand, Merlin turned around in preparation to depart. Guinevere inhaled as if to ask something else, but paused as if thinking better of it. Hearing this hesitation, the wizard turned around, blue eyes expectant.

"Wizard Merlin, about Amhar and the previous children before him; were they....?" The grieving queen trailed off, green eyes filled with fear as if she rather wished she had not said such a question at all.

"All but your second miscarriage were of King Arthur. Princes Arthur the Younger and Llacheu, and the Princess Igraine, were all true Pendragons and all deserve their resting places in the family tomb, God rest everyone of their souls. Farewell, my Queen."

Merlin turned and walked a few steps away, a bright light engulfing him and Amhar as he did so. Guinevere watched for as long as she could, until it became too radiant and she was forced to look back. By the time she had finished blinking the spots out of her eyes, the wizard and her child had completely vanished.

In a state of shock and grief, Guinevere stared at the spot she had last glimpsed her precious newborn son, the tears flowing freely from her eyes. Outside, the church bells began to toll, the people having heard the announcement of the birth of their new prince. They were celebrating the occasion, for how were they to know they had lost their future ruler right after his arrival into the world?

"No," she scolded herself. "Amhar is not lost to me. My baby will return one day to take up his father's mantle, and England shall receive a new and glorious leader. He will be back. My son will come home."

Despite the negative part of her mind that firmly thought otherwise, Guinevere believed in this with all of her heart.

**Next chapter: Merlin places Amhar/Eragon with Selena then returns to make his big scheme known to England. Meanwhile, Mordred and his brothers ponder over the turn of events, and begin to devise plans of their own.**

**1. Regard matters of Arthur's children, many of the later legends portray Gwen as barren, unable to give him any legitimate heirs. However, early legends give them several sons. I believe Llacheu was the name of the child Arthur killed for unknown reasons and Amhar was tragically killed in the final battle against Mordred. Artie Jr. and Igraine are of my own creation, though all four legitimate children will have their parts to play, living or dead. And yes, Amhar will obviously become the Eragon we all know and love.**

**2. Merlin is no god. He is not able to see everything in the future and has a notoriously poor memory. (A-lah _Once and Future King _where he forgets to inform Arthur Morgause is his half-sister, setting up his whole fall from grace in the first place.) And, from the visions he does see, he is unable to interfere with what is destined to happen. Remember when he knew himself to one day be imprisoned by Nimue, but does nothing to prevent it?**

**3. Prophecies _always _come true, even if their meanings are not always obvious at first. I hope to throw in some original twists of my own and deviate slightly from the established legends. I would also like Morgana/Morgan le Fay and Arthur's Elaine to make some more appearances of their own. Is the prophecy entirely obvious? I purposely made it so in some spots but left others ambiguous. Feel free to theorize ;).**

**4. Magic is inherited, or at least I will make it so in this AU. Notice that all of Igraine's original children are able to do magic. Morgana turned herself into an immortal faerie. (She was originally human but faked her own death to escape the arranged marriage and later returned as an immortal sorceress to wreak havoc upon the ones that had put her in that position, Uther and his son Arthur.) Morgause has been shown to use invisibility and bewitching spells in some versions. And Elaine? Well, she has a weak magical gift but magic nevertheless. Arthur? In T. White's work he is able to be turned into all sorts of animals (with Merlin's assistance) while his friend Kay was unable to be affected by the magic at all. He later wielded Excalibur, a notoriously picky sword that rarely chose a master. Wouldn't a magic sword tend to remain with those of the same sort? My theory is that Arthur had magic, while not a large amount, but enough to perform feats normal Kings were unable of doing.**


	3. The Legendary Blade

**Disclaimer: _The Inheritance Cycle _and the Arthurian legends are not and will sadly never be mine. However, some interpretations of the characters and aspects of the legends are my own, as well as any original material in this story.**

_"My son, I have nothing left to give_

_But this chance that you may live_

_I pray we may meet again,_

_If He may deliver us"_

_-**River Lullaby **_**from _Prince of Egypt_**

She was a beautiful young woman, with silky light brown hair and blue-gray eyes like that of a distant sky. But her fairness was tainted by the sorrow that adorned her features, the anguish that brimmed as tears in her marvelous eyes, such an overwhelming sadness that no comforting hand or shoulder could easily ameliorate. Her name was Selena, both the former devoted lover of Morzan and his feared Black Hand. She was also the mother of his one (or possibly two) offspring, the latter of which had been born dead, his life ended before it even began.

Selena's blind infatuation with Morzan had harshly crashed to a bitter end after what that _brute _had done to their son, Murtagh. In a drunken rage, the man had hurled his sword at his own defenseless son, and had caught the toddler deep in the back. Had Selena not been a master magic-user and not present for a timely invervention, Murtagh could have perished right there on the floor. But his tender flesh would always bear a gruesome scar, one that would forever remind him of his shameful parentage to a brutal Forsworn Rider and his ruthless Black Hand.

Since that fateful incident, Selena had become disdainful and hateful toward Morzan. Had she the power, she would have killed him on sight and fled for safety with her son. But Morzan had taught her everything she knew, and she had not the slightest chance of victory in a fair duel against him. Even if she managed to slip poison into his drink or stab him while he slumbered, she would have been hunted down and killed like a slave that had dared take his futile flight toward freedom, only to be dragged back and hung by his exasperated master. King Galbatorix was Morzan's master, one who kept an ever watchful eye upon his secret family. It was no secret the mad ruler desired to one day train Murtagh as his perfect apprentice, and would never allow Selena to escape with him under any circumstances.

Destiny, though, had seemingly been on Selena's side. It had turned out that the estate's kindly gardner had been a Varden agent in disguise, who had once been a Shur'tugal named Brom. After Murtagh's injury, Selena and Brom had become ever closer, their relationship escalating into a clandestine coupling in her chambers. The spy had taken his leave shortly after, one of Galbatorix's prized dragon's eggs disappearing along with him. Morzan had flew off in hot pursuit of the stolen treasure, and Selena had been free to sneak off.

At the time Selena had been pregnant. Whether the child had been conceived during her one intimate encounter with Brom or another terrible night with Morzan, she knew and cared not. The offspring that she carried within her womb was of her own flesh and blood, free of the deeds either of his potential fathers had committed. She had unable to flee with Murtagh, but she was able to make sure her second baby with born in a safe enviorment.

But, it appeared some divine force had taken a strong dislike against her mortal soul. Someone or something continued to taunt her; making her greatest love turn out to be a senseless madman, disfiguring her innocent Murtagh out of one unfortunate hit, and now ripping her second child away from her before he had even inhaled his first breath.

Perhaps she should have been traveling so recklessly while pregnant, riding hard across Alagaesia in order to reach Carvahall and the haven of her brother Garrow's cottage. Or perhaps she had truly done something terrible to draw the ire of a higher power. Either way, her second son had been cold and blue-tinged. He was beyond saving. Beyond any help her impressive magical knowledge could offer.

Unable to contain her grief, the mother held the lifeless of her son, tears raining down to stain the bed she rested upon.

What would her brother and sister-in-law say? Marian had pitied her the moment she caught sight of her swollen belly. She had assumed the father of the child to have cruelly abandoned his 'wife' in her greatest time of need, unwilling to handle the responsibilities of supporting a newborn child. Garrow had not been able to veil disaproval of the scandalous-appearing situation, but had accepted his sister into his household nonetheless. How would they act when they realized the baby had been born dead?

_Perhaps they'll believe I killed my own flesh and blood, _she thought grimly. _Suffocated a bastard with a pillow while there were no witnesses to see the dreadful murder. _

"Only if you are willing to let them discover the stillborn son, dear Selena."

The bereaved mother glanced up, eyes narrowing dangerously while words of torture and death prepared to leap from her lips. However, the spells died in her throat before they reached the air, when she noticed the pecuiliar owner of the voice.

The man was ancient, his long beard snow-white and his back bent with the weight of his advanced age. Garbed in dark blue robes spangled with golden stars, he held a bundle of blankets with both arms. His wrinkled face wore a disarming smile, and for a fleeting second Selena thought him only to be a harmless old man.

Then she realized that he had somehow slipped into the room without her knowledge. He had even read her _thoughts _for the sakes of all the gods, when her mind was supposed to be protected by an impregnable barricade only the strongest of magicians could penetrate. Caution building up, Selena regarded the stranger warily, deciding to her him out only by mere curiousity. Perhaps he offered a solution to her unthinkable dilema.

"Who are you?" she demanded, keeping her voice to a sharp hiss so that her relatives did not hear the conversation from the other room. "How did you come to be here?"

The man looked upon her with benign blue eyes, and at once she knew his intentions to be pure. "Over the years I have gone by countless names by as many people. Call me Merlin, for simplicity's sake. As for how I magically appeared in your room, I know you to be the best candidate for this child's surrogate mother. I have to see if you will accept my proposition. If not, I will take my leave and you will never here from me ever again."

Selena glanced thoughtfully down at her own lifeless son and wistfully back at the bundle she now knew contained a healthy and happy baby. Unbidden, the child wrapped within the swaddling blankets began to cry, hungry for his mother's milk. It seemed as it fate with a merciful mistress after all.

"Why do you want me to raise him, though?" she questioned suspiciously, her better judgement over-powering her longing for the living child. "Surely that babe's own parents love him and miss him as much as I do my own son."

"Both have willingly and reluctantly relinquished him to me," Merlin intoned mildly. "Where this chid comes from, danger and death lurk behind every corner. Even with all the protection in the world, nothing would be able to stop him from meeting either corruption or his own demise. Here evil is visible and obvious, and doesn't wear fooling masks. In Alagaesia he can be safe, as your son, until the time is right for him to return home. Which is years from now, mind you, long after he has become a man able to survive on his own."

Glancing down at her child, Selena gave his cold cheek a tender kiss of farewell. What else did she have to lose? Raising this child would help to fill the aching void the death of this second son had created in her heart. She could give Murtagh a brother, Garrow and Marian a nephew, and Roran a new cousin. The price of one day allowing him to go home to his true family seemed a small one to pay. After all, he would always have the memories of his adopted family, and would undoubtedly return to visit once in a while.

"I agree to your terms," Selena said softly, offering her own child. "Please, give my son an honorable burial where he can rest undisturbed. His name is Cadoc."

Merlin inclined his head, and gently transferred the living child into her arms. The motions of having a child so familiar to her, Selena held him close, allowing him to nurse and get the nutrients his starving body demanded. A slight smile ghosting her lips, she looked up to adress Merlin, but the wizard had vanished, along with her dead child.

"It is okay, little one," she cooed softly to whom she now considered her third son. "You have a family with me and Murtagh now.... Eragon."

Cadoc had been named for her own father, a fine name that was now his and would adorn his tombstone. The first Cadoc had died shortly after Selena's birth and she had never gotten the opportunity to know him, much like what happened with his namesake. Eragon had been named after the first Dragon Rider, a wise and just leader that had settled decades of hard warfare between the elves and the dragons with the help of his bonded, Bid'daum.

The first Eragon had brought peace and prosperity after chaos had threatened to tear two entire races apart. Somehow, Selena sensed this Eragon would grow to become worthy of his own namesake, a daunting responsibility to complete.

But she wouldn't be able to live a happy and content life with her new son just yet. Morzan had departed from his estate, and had left young Murtagh vulnerable. Come tomorrow, Selena would leave Eragon behind in Carvahall to go and rescue her oldest child before his demonic father returned. With both of her children safe with her, she would no longer be bound to this land of madness and vengeance.

"Do you here that, little one?" she whispered to Eragon. "Alagaesia is tearing itself apart with the wars and feuds that have ravaged the people here since the fall of the Dragon Riders. Mark my words, you'll have no role in this destruction. When we rescue your brother, we're leaving this all behind us. Perhaps in time we'll even venture to the land of birth, and there discover your true parents. Until then and after, you will always be my son, whether you grow up to be a simple farmer or the world's greatest magician."

Selena leaned back, singing softly to her son while entertaining the glorious thoughts of what would come after she escaped this hell with both of her children, borne and adopted. She would not keep the truth concealed from Eragon, but she would love him fiercely and teach him all she could. Together, the three of them would be family, away from the fighting that had claimed so many innocent lives in Alagaesia.

_Sadly, Selena's dream was never to be. Exhausted from her difficult birth and still silently grieving her own son, she became dreadfully ill when traveling hard and fast to Morzan's estate. Inflicted with ailment beyond the aid of magic, she managed to reach her destination and rasp a tearful farewell to Murtagh before she succumbed to it. _

_As a terrible result, the great secret she harbored died along with her. Eragon grew up with his 'aunt and uncle', raised alongside his older 'cousin,', oblivious to the truth of his mysterious origins. Murtagh grew up in Urubaen, unaware his true brother had perished years ago. Both boys inadverantly got drawn into the chaos, becoming exposed to the tradgedies and bloodshed Selena had wished to save them from. _

_Elsewhere, Arthur and Guinevere remained blissfully oblivious of the horrors their son suffered. They believed Amhar to be growing up peacefully in a distant land, shielded from the troubles and corruption he would have dealt with in England. Bewitched by the sinister Nimue and his brains becoming increasingly addled with old age and infatuation, Merlin never suspected the sort of trouble the young Pendragon had gotten himself into. All of England believed their future ruler to be safe and sound, though some scoured the kingdom frequently for any search of their absent prince._

_It would not be until years later that the truth would be revealed, and everyone involved would at last be liberated of the lies and delusions they had been under for so long. But by then the damage had been dealt, and some of the effects were irreversible. _

_All because of one sickness that inflicted the most important piece of the puzzle at the most inopportune time. That Selena was suspiciously beyond the aid of the best magical healers when she at last reached the estate. _

_In hindsight, doesn't all of this seem too convient to be pure coincidence? I'll leave it up for you to decide, reader._

* * *

In Camelot, there were many places of importance where both local residents and visitors flocked daily. The legendary court was one such place, where desperate ladies or messengers requested the help of the Knights of the Round Table, and where tourists gathered to hopefully catch a glimpse of their ruler or one of his more famous knights. The arena was another popular sight, where tournaments were frequently hosted or where knights practiced on the lazier days.

Of course, the famous church courtyard where King Arthur had first drawn his first sword from the stone also attracted large crowds. It was the site where today's golden age of England had began, where their ruler had acquired the same blade that had slain the baron-king that had at first terrorized the country.

Before Arthur's rise the church and its courtyard had been dilapidated, abandoned by many of its members in favor of newer and grander locations to worship their God. Now everything was pristine, the church repaired and one of the most popular places of worship in Camelot. Its courtyard was always packed with people that wanted to view the infamous stone with their eyes. Opportunists weaved through the crowds, hawking everything they thought could be stole. One confidant salesman offered 'genuine' shards of what was known as the Kingsword, which had supposedly shattered during a monumental battle between King Arthur and some tyrannical lord whose name had been lost to history.

(In actuality, the true Kingsword was safely locked away in King Arthur's personal chambers. He preferred to wield the larger and more devastating Excalibur while in battle, for it made him downright invincible against most foes. But what the gullible tourists that bought the salesman's worthless sword shards didn't know couldn't hurt them.)

The stone itself that had once held the blade was unremarkable; it was a common nondescript gray rock that could be found in just about any quarry. Its only identifying features was the slender groove right in its center where the Kingsword had once been lodged and of course the golden words engraved onto its sides by Merlin himself: _'Only the True King of England can Draw this Kingsword From its Stone.'_

Not that stopped from crazy tourists from trying to chisel off fragments of the rock as souveniers, or even words of the engraving itself. Or haters of Arthur from trying to desecrate one his most lasting monuments. Thus the legendary stone was fenced off, and guarded at all times by severel armed men that prevented observers from wandering too close.

But the guards were trained to repel people that approached too close to their rocky charge for comfort, not to repulse wizards that _appeared out of thin air _to stand right on the stone. Noticing Merlin standing upon the stone and uncaring about preserving its integrity for future generations to oggle at, the hundreds of people crammed into the tiny courtyard turned to gawk at him in awe. Even the guards regarded him with shock, unsure of whether to tackle the renowned enchanter or leave him be.

"Is this the beginning a performance or something?" a confused husband whispered to his equally clueless wife.

"Do we have the authority to escort him away from the stone?" one guard wondered.

Merlin raised his hand, revealing a previously unnoticed scabbard. Unsheathing the blade within, he held it up to the blade, a work of such master craftsmanship it was undoubtedly the true Kingsword. Realizing it was not a spectacle organized by actors but the _real _Merlin with the _real _Kingsword the unwitting audience ceased in their muttering, looking up at the wizard with confusion and awe.

_"Behold!" _the magician boomed, his voice loud and clear to everyone in the courtyard. _"This is the true Kingsword, the same blade that our King Arthur drew from this very stone twenty long years ago. As some of you may know, Queen Guinevere bore our lord a son today, an heir to the throne." _Several members of the crowd exchanged excited glances, overjoyed at the news. _"But know that Prince Amhar Pendragon is unable to remain in England, for reasons I cannot disclose to you as of yet." _The previously ecstatic expressions turned into those of outrage and a buzz of angry mutterings began.

_"Silence, good people of England!" _Merlin roared again, effectively quieting the comments. _"Know that the Crown Prince will return to both his father and you, his future people. Have faith, for when he does come home to us, you shall know him as the future king. For only a true Pendragon can retrieve the Kingsword from its resting place!"_

Striking the tip of the blade into the stone, a defeaning clamor was emetted as metal collided with unmoveable rock. From the point of impact radiated a bright light that spread like a sunburst, blinding the people in the courtyard until they were forced to turn away. When everything had dimmed back to normal, Merlin had vanished like a mirage. But the Kingsword remained, lodged stubbornly in the stone as it had been twenty long years ago.

Tentatively, one of the guards put a tremulous hand around the Kingsword's hilt and gripped it cautiously. Attempting to budge it, he was met with a resistance he was sure the strongest man in the world couldn't overcome. Abandoning the futile effort, he then knelt down to examine the golden letters engraved into the stone. Even those had changed, though its weathered appearance gave the illusion the words had been carved there since the dawn of time: _'Only the True Heir of Arthur Pendragon may Draw this Kingsword from this Stone.'_

The guard then rose to his feet, nodding certainly at his discovery. "It's real!" he announced to the breathless crowd. "The sword is in its stone once more."

Astonished faces in the crowd turned to exchange startled glances with their neighbors. Utter silence reigned upon the spellbound audience, then realization dawned: The 'true heir' would one day inherit King Arthur's throne. Would one day be King of England themselves. Forgetting Merlin's words that only Prince Amhar could move the Kingsword from its enchantmant, there was a mad dash as people kicked and scratched and anything that would get their greedy hands upon the blade's tantalizing hilt. Guards and those that had taken Merlin's proclamation to heart rushed to defend the Kingsword, and a struggle ensued as they tried to beat back those desperate with the longing for power.

Meanwhile, several angered gazes looked down at the supposedly 'genuine' shards of the Kingsword, then all focused on the salesman like a pack of ravenous dogs eyeing a scrap of meat. Enraged at how he had taken advantage of their trusting nature, they advanced upon the dishonest citizen, who had not the slightest chance of escaping the courtyard in time.

Several hours later, a very battered salesman arrived at a healer's home. He bore several nasty wounds, and one metal fragment had found its way into a rather uncomfortable position.

The moral of the story: People were sometimes gullible. But you should take advantage of that flaw, there would come a time when they would discover your crime and turn against you, sometimes with violent results. Though no one knew it yet, such a philosophy could have saved a certain someone a lot of trouble if had he taken the matter to heart and not committed such dark acts. And England would have been better because of it.

* * *

The news of the Kingsword spread like wildfire. All around Camelot, people toasted to their new infant prince and wished him the best of luck, whereever he was. The scornful glares and nasty rumors that haunted Guinevere ceased at this discovery. Instead of speaking further ill of her, England praised her resolve and sympasized with the poor mother that had been forced to relinquish her own child for its own safety. England rejoiced, for it at last had its heir and the Kingsword was proof of his inevitable return to them. In their high spirits, the awful truth that King Arthur's own son's life was endangered in their country was lost to them.

Elsewhere, while the rest of the kingdom celebrated at this marvelous news, several surly men brooded over it. Five knights hunched in a dark corner of the castle's hall. Their comrades were giddy over the news, merrily singing ballads and belting out praises for their new Crown Prince. Beer and other alcoholic beverages were passed out freely and several musicians pulled out their instruments. Even the most restrained and proper old men discarded their inhibitions and joined in the revelry. But these knights isolated themselves from the celebrations, immersed in plotting and musing of their own.

Sir Gawaine was the oldest of the men present. He was one the best knights of the Round Table, rumored to be second only to Lancelot himself. Unfortunately, he had a notoriously fiery temper and a habit to make snap judgements before the whole story was known. Though Gawaine had good intentions at heart, his trusting nature made him easy to be manipulated by those he held closest. Oldest of the Orkney clan and thus the leader of his brothers, any sharp eye could have deduced the sibling truly in charge.

"So we have a new cousin and a Crown Prince," he said. "Surely such an event calls for celebration, brothers. I see no reason why we should be brooding over here and not partaking in the merriment."

Gareth nodded. He was the goodnatured one of the five brothers and the most insightful, but his submissive attitude made him easy to order around. "Aye. I agree with Gawaine. Dear Uncle Arthur has a new son at last. That means England finally has an heir."

Mordred shrugged, taking a small sip of his tankard. "England's throne already had an heir before long before this newest child was born," he remarked silkily.

Sir Mordred was the youngest of the brothers, but he resembled none of them. They all had the reddish hair and dark eyes that were common to their family, he didn't. His skin was like ivory, his hair perhaps only a shade away from the moon's cool silver hue. Even his eyes were devoid of color, and all human emotion. They were like two blue ice chips, their pale depths fathomless. He was avoided by others of the Round Table, as if others sensed something was very off about him. Mordred's own brothers suspected their youngest sibling for a very long time, but they couldn't support their uneasiness and thus still trusted his word.

Taking a heavy chug of his drink, Gaheris eyed the pale man grumpily. "What are you going on about, Mordred? I'm in no mood for your cryptic answers!"

"Out of Granny Igraine's children, who is the oldest?"

"Mother, of course," Gareth replied. "Closely followed by Aunt Elain a year later."

"Yet out of all four of Granny Igraine's children, who rules over her husband's kingdom?"

Agravaine snorted. "Our bastard half-uncle, of course. Not only was our mother from a previous marriage, but she was born a woman."

"Uther Pendragon's only living blood relative, Aurelius, died without producing legitimate children, correct?" The other brothers nodded here. "Then Arthur was the last of that line when he ascended the throne. So who was appointed his heir shortly after his coronation? Who is the oldest of his half-sisters? And from that sister, who is her oldest and most capable son? The one that will inherit the thrones of Orkney and Lothian upon her death. The son that was slated to become King of England should the young Pendragon perish in his attempt to unite a wartorn nation?"

Pale blue eyes turned to rest on Gawaine, narrowing slightly. Slowly the other brothers followed suit. The eldest sibling shook his head violently in disbelief, frowning at the insinuation of Mordred's words.

"Aye, I was Arthur's original heir, but all of Great Britain knew this position was only temporary. It was only a matter of time before he sired a true son of his own, an actual Pendragon that was not the child of a stepdaughter. Now our kingdom has an heir that will be the ruler they deserve." Lifting his tankard, Gawaine downed the last of it, upset for some reason.

"Does it?" Mordred questioned snidely. "Prince Amhar has been sent God knows where, and we aren't even sure if he'll grow up with the truth of his lineage! Do you honestly expect a brat that knows nothing of this country to rule over it justly?"

Feeling defensive over his new infant cousin, Gareth winced slightly. "Uncle Arthur will teach him all he needs to know," he pointed out without defiance. "Besides, Amhar is a true Pendragon. That and his father's tutelage should be enough to ensure he'll turn out a decent leader."

"By the time when our beloved prince returns he'll be a man with his values forever ingrained into him, be them good or bad. Not even being mentored by King Arthur himself will be able to redeem an already dark heart. Then upon his father's death a potential tyrant will assume control of England, and he will be impossible to get rid of except by assassination or, God forbid, complete and utter anarchy." Mordred offered Gawaine a heartening smile. "Why not put a real King in charge? One who has the valor of a lion and the resolve of a true Gael. One who knows England and can give her the leadership she deserves. Tell me, brothers, why can there not be a King Gawaine of England when the time is ripe for one?"

Agravaine nodded enthusiatically, eyes gaining an ambitious gleam. "I agree with Mordred, Gawaine. You'd make a finer ruler than any runt cousin of ours."

Gaheris sneered at the other knight, lip curling in distaste. "Your aspirations for power are not unknown, Agravaine. Even the scullion boys can see you desire to become King one day, one that has a sovereign rule over others. Should Gawaine be crowned King, you'd be next in line as second-born."

Gareth's mouth dropped in horror, as if the mere contemplation of such self-serving acts was the greatest sin. "How dare you accuse your own brother of such a thing, Gaheris! Agravaine is perfectly aware that Gawaine has three darling sons with his lovely wife. He simply wants whats best for England." Unsurprisingly, Agravaine hastily concured with this interpretation and implored for understanding from his brothers.

"Aye, what's best for our beloved kingdom," Mordred said earnestly, though the beseeching smile that graced his face didn't reach his stoic eyes. "Your reluctance to assume such responsibility is understandable, Gawaine. I apologize for asking you to bear such a burden. But England deserves a good King, does it not? Someone that can hope to reach the high standards Uncle Arthur set."

Gaheris arched a curious brow. "What do you propose we do? Teach the runt ourselves?"

"Why not?" Mordred asked reasonably. "Are we five not knights of the Round Table? Did we not swear to uphold the ancient code of chivalarly and constantly strive to protect England? To empower the weak and administer justice to the wronged. Between us we can shape our young prince into the greatest ruler Great Britain has ever seen."

Gawaine shook his head. "This is madness, Mordred. King Arthur hid his son away from the world for good reason. To go against his wishes to find and influence Amhar just doesn't set well with me."

"Our uncle may be bewitched by the cryptic yarn his pet wizard weaves for him," Agravaine drawled. "Merlin predicts doom every other day in his advanced age. Arthur easily could have panicked and hid Amhar unneccarily. If so, it is up for us to make sure our darling cousin gets the proper education he needs."

Gawaine scratched his ginger beard thoughtfully, considering their options. "If we believe it to be best for him and England," he conceded reluctantly. "How do we find him, though?"

"Magic," Mordred answered simply. Glimpsing the looks on his brothers' faces (all of them had unfortunate encounters with spiteful witches or dark enchantments at some point or another), he sighed. "Don't forget a perchant for magic runs in the family. Doesn't your power rise with the sun, Gawaine, to give the strength of three men by noon? Didn't Aunt Morgana transform herself into a faerie? Working some simple spells to locate our wayward kinsman should be no problem for the five of us."

Together, the four brothers and their one half-sibling (who had never thought it important to divulge in the truth of his heritage) raised their tankards. But it was not a toast to celebrate the birth of the Prince Amhar. It was to seal a familial pact, an oath to find and teach the future ruler all he needed to know to become a legend in his own right. To defy Arthur's obvious wishes to do what they deemed best.

After all, it was the best for both Amhar and all of England. Such deception on their behalf toward their overlord would be worth it for the greater good of all.

**Next chapter: We shift focus back to Eragon and Saphira. They live in Alagaesia, oblivious to the deception and trouble unraveling in jolly old England. Until the secret guardian that has silently watched over and protected them from the meddling magicks of the Orkney clan and Morgan le Fay decides the time is right to send the both of them to Camelot. Unfortunately, our favorite duo gave gotten themselves into a spot of trouble: Faeries _really _don't like it if you try to interfere with the capture of innocent children. This is where having a giant dragon comes in handy.**

**1. The Kingsword is different from Excalibur. It is the sword Arthur pulled from the stone and used up until he received the legendary blade from the Lady of the Lake. He kept it in his private chambers as a memoriam of his early years. Merlin simply retreived it and stuck it back into its same stone for the true heir to pull out at a later date as proof of his lineage.**

**2. Gawaine, Agravain, Gaheris, and Gareth are all the _true_ sons of Queen Morgause and King Gorlois and will be vital to this story. Gawaine is the oldest of the brothers and was first in line for the English throne until Amhar was born. He has a good heart but a dark temper and is easy to be manipulated by a smarter man. His power rises with th sun: at noon his strength equals that of three men but is greatly diminished by sunset. Agravain is second-oldest, with an aggressive nature and a lust for power. Gaheris is simply grouchy and tends to side with Mordred on many issues. Gareth is youngest and is very trusting. On the down side, he absolutely believes his relatives are incapable of evil and doesn't have a backbone. None are yet aware that Mordred is the product of an incestuous union between Morgause and their half-uncle, Arthur. But Mordred is, and plans to use it to his advantage.**


	4. The White Raven

**For the one reader that was surprised Gawain was a villain, you gotta remember in many of the legends he _was. _His notorious temper lead him slaughtering a young maiden (though he did repent). As well as having a temper, he was very easy to manipulate. As good a heart Gawain really has, his desire for revenge and Morded's influence can turn him into a traitor against all he once stood for. Which indeed happened in _Once and Future King _and many other works like it...**

**Warning: A very slow chapter ahead. Those interested in actual plot movement and action continue at own risk.**

**Disclaimer: The Arthurian legends and _the Inheritance Cycle _obviously do not belong to me. However, some interpretations of certain aspects of the legends are mine, as well as any other original material. **

_"To be someone like me,_

_This is the birth of all hope._

_To have what I once had, _

_This life unforgiven,_

_It will end with a birth"_

_-__**End of All Hope, **_**Nightwish**

Thousands of miles from the country of England, across a vast ocean and some further distance inland, lay a forest near the northern border of Surda. It wasn't particularly large or ancient forest, but its fearsome reputation belied its ordinary appearance. For years the inhabitants of the surrounding villages had been plagued with mysterious happenings. Livestock would be found dead, entangled in fences in ways that suggest they committed suicide. Children were lured away from their parents by siren calls and snatched up by shadowy figures, never to be seen again. Those few foolish hunters that dared to venture into the forest turned up days later on their doorsteps, rambling senselessly and irreparably mad. For all of the paranormal circumstances with no natural explanation, the forest was aptly dubbed the Spiritwood by its terrified neighbors.

Was the Spiritwood haunted by vengeful spirits, or was some other phenomena behind the mysterious occurrences? All of King Orrin's forces were off battling against the Empire, and none could be spared to investigate some local superstitions. The same applied for the most powerful of magicians and sorcerers that had been drafted into the Surdan army. Those left did not have the strength to oppose the inhuman forces that resided in the Spiritwood. And so without even an explanation to the nightmare, the villagers lived in constant fear of the neighboring forest.

Unbeknownst to these unfortunate Surdans, an unlikely champion had indeed ventured into the Spiritwood to investigate the strange happenings. He was not the caption of a powerful legion of soldiers or a hero worthy of legendary merit. Blagden was a white raven. Capable of speech and possessing clairvoyant abilities, aye, but nothing more than an obnoxious oddly-colored bird with some interesting talents. Or, at least that was what those that knew of his existence chose to believe about him.

Had Blagden's binding oaths not prevented him from telling the truth to _anyone, _he promptly would have transformed into his true shape, pointed at the oblivious elves, and openly laughed at their arrogance about his true powers. Their stoic faces and unoriginal magics did little to intimidate _him._

But, considering the magical vows his mentor had made him swore were still in tact years after the old man's death, Blagden was physically incapable of doing such a thing. Instead the bird bid his time until he could finally fulfill his oaths, satisfying his vengeance with taunting elves with annoying rhymes and vulgar exclamations in the mean time. Fortunately, though, the unusual predicaments in the so-called Spiritwood seemed an optimistic lead in the fulfillment of aforementioned promises.

Which was why the white raven perched upon a branch in the middle of the Spiritwood, patiently waiting for an encounter with the supernatural. Preening his snow-white plumage, Blagden tuned all else out, knowing he was bound to stumble upon what he was searching for eventually.

Indeed, he would. Several moments after Blagden had commenced cleaning his feathers for the third time in a row, a familiar chill ran down his spine. Jewel-bright dark eyes narrowing, the bird's head snapped up. Instinctively puffing up in a reflexive response to make himself look bigger to predators, he silently sat upon his perch and waited.

The forest had fallen unnaturally silent, the sounds of usual animal activity swiftly ceasing as beasts of all kind cowered in dens or else fled the area. The air in the small forest clearing Blagden was located near began to shimmer with the tell-tale presence of a familiar brand of magic.

_Great. Of all the blasted creatures out there, it had to be faeries. Morgan le Fey's lot, no doubt. Only would they persuade animals into killing themselves and driving young man hopelessly insane for the fun of it. And kidnap human children as servants to use in their own realm. _

Cursing as his misfortune, Blagden dug his talons deeper into the wood and waited for the blasted Fey to manifest themselves.

Suddenly, the small space in the clearing expanded, the openness stretching out while pushing the surrounding woods back. White liquid began to burble up from the ground, forming a small lake of cream. From this natural impossibility rose a castle made of delicious gingerbread frosted with sweet icing. A bridge of butter emerged from the lake, connecting the edible fortress to the forest. Guards made of gingerbread emerged from the two massive doors to stand vigil at the entrance, the pikes they held crafted of crystallize syrup.

Scenting the irresistible aroma that wafted from the castle, Blagden's mouth would have watered had it not been a beak incapable of producing saliva. Shaking his head to clear his head from the temptation of flying over and pecking at the gingerbread walls, the white raven squawked a curse.

_Damned faeries. They know the children in the villages hunger for food since there is no available game to be hunted and little earth to be farmed. So they use this cursed fortress to lure the innocent youth to them. Once close enough, those Fey will capture them and spirit them away to the Faerie Domain. _

Which was Morgan le Fey's preferred strategy for gathering new servants for her castle. Considering her strange whims and bloodthirsty subjects, the unfortunate humans that resided in her kingdom tended to have notoriously brief lifespans. Lord knows how many innocent children she had already stolen away from Surda as a labor force, how many had succumbed to the madness of their faerie overlords...

_It's for the best know. The Pendragons have generations of bad blood against the faeries. First Uther goes and engages Morgana to an ugly old earl, only for her to go and turn herself into one of the Fay to avoid the marriage and to gain immortality. Then she returns to try and lure her half-brother to his doom, thankfully to be repulsed by an iron knife, courtesy of young Arthur. Knowing Amhar's family history, he will undoubtedly show up to engage his aunt in yet another round of combat. Ah, well. At least it will make locating him easier for me._

Sensing an unwelcome intruder, one of the gingerbread man's pupil-less eyes turned to focus directly on him. Returning the emotionless stare evenly, Blagden fluttered over to the tree closest to the bridge, his silent beckon too obvious to ignore. The gingerbread guard nodded curtly to his fellows, striding across the bridge of butter to converse with the white raven face to face. As the edible being neared solid ground, he underwent a peculiar transformation.

Gingerbread fell away as reddish crumbs, revealing golden armor and true flesh underneath. The harmless maple syrup pikes morphed into true deadly weapons, their tips bronze instead of the customary iron. (Iron was the Fey's only mortal weakness, as just be going near it made themselves extremely vulnerable.) Then the transition from harmless dessert item to true threat was complete, leaving one of Queen Morgan's loyal guards behind.

What did a faerie look like? They averaged out to about seven feet tall, all slender and with the grace of wild cats. With pointed ears and angular features they greatly resembled Alagaesia's elves, but the Fey were the perfected versions of those beings. Their skin seemed to glow with illumination of all its own, and the air about them seemed to shimmer with the magical aura they emanated. While elves had mainly dark air, the locks of every faerie were the color of starlight. All of their eyes were dark, so fathomless a human would go mad if they stared within them for too long. In comparison, elves were the mangy feral house cats while faeries were the large and majestic mountain lions.

Oh, and the Fey were about several dozen times more of a threat than the average elf was.

"Come down, magician!" the faerie-guard called in his melodious voice. Despite his mystical beauty, their was a disdainful sneer to his flawless face, an unnerving glitter to his dark eyes, a haughtiness to his lilt. While the ordinary human would have been blinded to these subtle warning signs, Blagden was far more alert and unwilling to trust such an unreliable being. "Introduce yourself to me properly."

_I am under no obligation to do so, faerie, _Blagden answered mildly. Despite his nervousness, he kept the tremor out of his voice. _Your kind is as unpredictable as the oceans themselves. I would sooner trust a venomous snake more than you. _

No trace of displeasure crossed the Fey's features, but the white raven knew the wondrous male was secretly irate at the caution of a wise individual. "Rumor has it that Merlin's apprentice was banished to this land long ago. If you are indeed that exiled apprentice, then the same truce that applied for your teacher covers you, as well. That would make you and I incapable of harming the other."

Hesitating only for a moment, the white raven abandoned his perch and fluttered down to the ground. There was a flash of brilliant light, and then the bird had been replaced by a young man with light blond hair and dark brown eyes. Garbed in white robes, he had a birdlike hooked nose and was smaller than average. The magician's arms were crossed, his lips turned into a sharp frown.

Recalling the ancient rules of propriety, Blagden inclined his head respectfully. His true voice was hoarse from spending so many years in his other form, but he could still form coherent sentences. "I am Blagden Hectorsson, former apprentice of the late Merlin. I seek a civil exchange of information with you."

The faerie dipped his head in the same gesture, though his was far shallower and brief. Blagden wisely chose not to remark upon this act of pointed disrespect. "And I am Elrohir Udrunesson, loyal guard of the esteemed Queen Morgan le Fey. I agree to your request."

Without preamble, Blagden nodded sharply at the edible castle and of the guards that patrolled it, just waiting to snatch unsuspecting children or other victims the moment they wandered too close. "I may have been cut off from the rest of the world for quite some time, but I thought your beloved monarch gave up such habits years ago," he said silkily. "Does Morgana truly feel confident enough to steal human children away from their homes after what almost happened to her the last time?"

Elrohir snarled at the address of his queen by her 'mortal name', but his oaths prevented from striking out. "King Arthur is unheard of this foreign land," he said simply. "Here we faeries select whom we wish, for they all all worthy of eternal servitude to their natural superiors." He sneered disdainfully. "What of you, former apprentice? Merlin was quite fond of his Pendragon pupil and did shelter his only surviving offspring away from the world. You wouldn't happen to be guarding over the young Prince Amhar, now would you?"

Unable to stop the small smirk that spread across his features, that smug expression only widened when Elrohir's scowl of annoyance. "In case you have forgotten, faerie, Merlin banished me here decades before King Arthur was even born. Besides, much of that time was spent in isolation from the outside world amongst the elves of Du Weldenvarden. You wouldn't happen to know of them, would you?"

Elrohir's handsome features contorted into a bestial thing of rage, something that belonged only in a child's nightmare. "Don't you mention those half-breeds in front of me," he hissed. "Abominations of mankind and Fey, banished from the Otherworld to forever reside in this world's forest as outcasts." His dark eyes flicked up to Blagden's white hair his fury was replaced by a mocking jeer. "But you would know about such shame, Hectorsson. The blood of such bastards courses through your very veins."

Blagden shrugged dismissively. "One sixteenth on my mother's side, actually. My great-great grandfather got seduced by one of your females one wild summer's night many years ago. The following year, a basket containing my great-grandmother was left upon his doorstep. Thankfully, I inherited neither your arrogance nor your pride."

When the faerie-guard's face turned a sufficient crimson, Blagden knew that he had gotten Elrohir off his earlier train of thought. And so the Fey had conveniently forgotten that Merlin had been able to see hundreds of years into the future during his glory years, and it was under such circumstances Blagden had been condemned to such a fate in the first place.

_Thud thud. Thud thud._

Sharp ears detected a sound no mere human could hear, and two pairs of dark eyes simultaneously snapped their attention upward to the cerulean sky. Far off, but rapidly approaching, was the noise of flapping wings. But they belonged to no bird, for the sound was far stronger, not muffled by soft feathers.

Apprehensive, Elrohir's dark eyes narrowed into wary slits. Something akin to fear flashed across his face like lightning, the emotion enough to make him move a few cautious steps back. Smirking knowingly, Blagden chuckled in bemusement.

"Confused at the sound, faerie?" he asked silkily. "Your memory spans on for far longer than mine. What creatures used to roam this land? A certain kind of winged beast that didn't like to know that you were intruding upon its territory. One with a very good friend that won't be pleased at your capture and enslavement of human children."

"Dragon and Rider," the faerie breathed in fear. Face contorting in an amusing mixture of fear and rage, he snarled at his distant kindred once again. "Impossible! The native dragons were driven out of this land ages ago and the Shur'tugal and their foul magics exterminated for good! What I am hearing now is no doubt a pitiful attempt of deception created by you to intimidate me!"

Blagden mockingly scrunched his face up in a pensive expression. "Then what sound could we be hearing then? Creatures of all sorts are attracted to that tantalizing castle of yours. Perhaps the aroma is enough to lure the shades of the dead out into broad daylight for a taste."

Not giving Elrohir a chance to respond, the white-haired enchanter spread his arms and disappeared in a flash of bright light. While Elrohir snapped around and shouted orders at his fellow guards, a familiar clairvoyant raven observed the spectacle from in relative safety from the branches of a nearby tree. Should the pigheaded and immature Dragon Rider be the answer to his quest, then he would at last carry out Merlin's orders. If not, the entertainment that would come from the impending conflict would be enough to satisfy him for years.

_Let's just hope Oromis's teachings stuck with the boy or else this could get really bloody..._

* * *

Somewhere in the northern part of Surda, a female dragon flew. She was perhaps only one year of age, her scales a deep sapphire. For faster travel and to avoid being spotted by unwelcome witnesses. The she-dragon soared upon the winds like a hawk, preserving her energy for the long flight ahead. Low-lying clouds floated beneath her, partially obscuring her figure from view. Even if a sharp-eyed Surdan glimpsed her, at such a high altitude she would merely be mistaken for a bird.

On Saphira's back was a single passenger, seated on the saddle strapped to her belly. He was a young man that had barely surpassed boyhood, no more than sixteen years of age. From a distance people would think him to be merely a scrawny adolescent, but closer examination revealed a lithe form and angular features that were inhuman. Wind playfully nipped at his dark brown hair, blowing it right into his face. Uncaring, the young man kept his eyes shut, meditating upon some inner matter.

Surreptitiously glancing backwards at her Rider, Saphira rumbled in frustration. Usually Eragon would be enjoying the flight, reveling in the liberating sensation of the wind against his face. Since that.... _incident_, at the Battle of the Burning Plains, her beloved human had changed. Change she feared was for the worse.

_Little one? _she ventured tentatively. _Care to voice what's on your mind? I can feel something troubles you._

Slowly, Eragon opened his eyes. They were a deep blue-gray and had a peculiar habit of betraying all of his emotions. Right now, they portrayed all the information Saphira needed, the secrets her Rider attempted to conceal from here.

"Nothing is wrong, Saphira. I'm just tired out from all of the recent fighting." Pure lies. Both of them knew it, but neither had the desire to kindle the old argument up again.

Exactly two weeks had passed since the Battle of the Burning Plains against Galbatorix's forces. When the conflict first began, it seemed as if the rebellion would perish upon the battlefield that day. But by some stroke of fortune the tides of war had changed in their favor, and it had been Lady Nasuada and King Orrin that had celebrated in their triumph. It seemed a sign that the rebellion was capable of holding its own against Imperial forces in such battles, and that the time was right to begin planning offensive attacks larger than the customary raids against the Empire.

Encouraging as this news was, Eragon had not shared in his comrades' hope. Something deeply negative tainted the miraculous victory, a deep matter that simply couldn't be ignored. He carried it within him, after all, and would do so forever.

Murtagh had survived the earlier assault, though he could not be scryed and was presumed dead by even the most hopeful of people. He had been captured by Galbatorix and imprisoned for months. During that time one of the world's last dragon eggs hatched for him, and the young man was forced to become a virtual slave to the Mad King. Months after his disappearance, he had returned for the Battle of the Burning Plains upon a red dragon named Thorn and with enough magic to force Eragon and Saphira into submission.

He had been ordered by his master to bring the rebel she-dragon and her Rider back to Urubaen in chains, but had slipped around his magical oaths and was able to release his captives. Enslaved as he was, some of the old Murtagh lingered beneath this new monster, as he had the mercy to spare Eragon from his fate. He had promised he would show no such softness at their next confrontation, and so departed upon Thorn, with his rivals incapacitated so they couldn't pursue him. But before doing so, he had confided a dark secret to Eragon. A truth so dark it would never have been believed had he not sworn it in the ancient language.

Eragon Shadeslayer, Saphira's Rider and the embodiment of the rebellion's hope, was the spawn of Morzan. The same Morzan that helped Galbatorix rise to power and exterminate Shur'tugal and dragons alike. The same Morzan that happened to be Murtagh's father, the same cruel parent that had severely scarred his young son during a drunken rage. Which made Eragon kin to two twisted Riders that served the Empire's mad tyrant, willingly or not.

When he had revealed his nightmare to his trusted companions, they had not rejected him for being the son of the second most-hated man in Alagaesia's history. Everyone, from Nasuada to his cousin Roran, had accepted the undeniable truth. But that didn't stop their pity for his situation, nor did it alter the reality that Eragon was fighting against his own brother and betraying everything his _father _had fought for.

Eragon did his best to recover from the devastating blow to his morale and self-consciousness. He vehemently denied the revelation had affected him. After all, so what if he shared blood with monsters? He'd known Murtagh only for several months, and Morzan had perished shortly after his birth. Roran had grown up alongside him, and the cousins considered themselves brothers in all but name. Uncle Garrow had raised and instilled his values into him. Didn't that make him more of a father than the man that had simply sired him?

Deluding himself and others into thinking he was untouched by Murtagh's confessions, Eragon had concentrated on more important matters. Together he and Saphira had freed Roran's captive fiance, Katrina, from her imprisonment in Helgrind. (His cousin had been forced to remain behind during the rescue mission for his own safety, though only one Lethrblaka had been guarding the fortress at that time. Eragon still hungered for vengeance against his uncle's murderers, but Katrina had been in bad condition and time couldn't be wasted hanging around for a petty fight.)

With Roran and his bride-to-be safe and sound at the Varden's camp, Eragon and Saphira where now on their way back to Du Weldenvarden. Both had vowed to their mentors, Oromis and Glaedr, they would return as soon as possible to finish up their tutelage. Their promises had been made in the ancient language, and it would be wise to fulfill them before something bad happened.

Though he firmly believed otherwise, the revulsion and shame of being Morzan's son kept sneaking upon him during times of idleness. With nothing to occupy his thoughts, they always strayed to the worst subject imaginable. In this case, his demonic parentage. Seething with doubt and self-loathing he did his best to conceal from his she-dragon, Eragon snapped himself out of his trance and focused upon a topic that didn't involve fathers.

"Saphira?" he asked. "Do you know where we are right now?"

_I have glimpsed into the minds of the animals and have gathered enough memories to safely assume our current location. According to the livestock, we are above what their masters call the Spiritwood. _She snorted. _Foolish villagers and their rural superstitions. Why is your kind so terrified by simple matters of nature, little one? When something remotely out of the ordinary occurs their minds always jump to mythical creatures and the paranormal. Such behavior is so-_

"Enough. I get the point." Not to mention Eragon was tired of these unintended insults that could be applied to him. _He _had been one of those superstitious villagers with nothing better to believe in, thank you very much. "Still, I have to wonder why they call this innocent forest the Spirit-"

Scenting something on the wind, Saphira's head shot up as her nostrils flared. Instinctively her mind and Eragon's merged back to their usual closeness, transmitting her finds across their link. Unsure of what he receiving was real, the Dragon Rider frowned in confusion.

"Is that... gingerbread I'm smelling?"

His sapphire-scaled she-dragon nodded grimly. _Aye. I scent it too. But how can it be possible? Strong as our senses our, they wouldn't be able to detect this scent unless the gingerbread was present in an absurdly large quantity._

"Has anything like this happened before?" Eragon questioned. "Is there a memory we can rely on for information?"

Consulting Saphira's ancestral memories together, there was indeed a large recollection of such encounters. They were ancient ones, the most recent several centuries old, but all told the same basic story:

The original owner of the memory had scented the gingerbread, and had flown over to investigate. What they discovered at the sweet aroma's source was a castle comprised entirely of delicious sweets. Innocent and starving human children were lured in by the irresistible temptation, like flies to a spider's web. There strange creatures were waiting to snatch them up and drag them into the edible fortress, to do spirits knew what. For dragons that had stumbled upon this kidnap-in-progress would be quick to retaliate against the monsters, lashing out with claws and flames until the threat had vanished into thin air. Back to whatever gods forsaken realm it had crawled from.

_That must have been what was holding those kidnappers back, _Saphira remarked after reviewing the ancestral memories. _Dragons were protective of all younglings, especially after the pact with the elves was sealed and the first Riders created. Together they must have banded to drive those monsters from Alagaesia forever and succeeded in their mission centuries ago. What drove them to return? _

"Some brave scout must have ventured forth to check upon the old hunting grounds," Eragon answered grimly. "When he realized the dragons and Riders long dead. he must have reported it to his leader. So they have returned to steal away children once again."

_What should we do? Strong as we are, little one, dragons attacked these mysterious creatures in groups or with Riders on their side. Can just the two of us defeat a group of beings with untold power?_

None needed words to voice their decision. Pure acceptance untainted by fear or doubt flowed freely through the connection, unanimously shared by dragon and Rider alike. Unbidden Saphira swooped out of the clouds and altered her pace from a serene soar to flapping her wings with furious speed. Honed onto the scent like a hound after the quarry, she was now on a direct path to the monsters that dared to think they could capture innocent children and torture them in unspeakable ways. Eragon loosened the straps that bound him to the saddle. Mustering up his concentration in preparation for spell-casting, his hand also strayed down to the hilt of the blade strapped to his belt.

Had Eragon been any other person, he might have reconsidered his rash decisions. Acting upon impulses in the past had almost lead to his end on several nasty occasions, and by now he ought to have learned such reckless behavior would one day mean the death of him. But, since his childhood, Eragon Shadeslayer had always been a man that thought his heart and not with a common person's reason.

Children's lives were at risk, and it was all it took for him to throw caution to the wind. Putting no thought into how he would defeat unknown enemies or how he would retaliate, his only desire was to rid the world of these heartless abominations.

Despite the unlikeliness of his success, he was determined to make it so.

* * *

From his hidden perch upon a nearby by, Blagden witnessed the ensuing fight with a mixture of scrutiny and fascination. He had unrealistically high expectations for the boy that was one of the few to be dubbed 'Shadeslayer' and God helped the clueless fool if he failed to exceed them. With this encouragement in mind, the white raven observed everything with jewel-bright eyes.

Eragon was bound to show up to duel with the Fey. The boy seemed to be attracted to danger like Sir Lancelot was to fair maidens in desperate need of a champion. Should he prove himself against such formidable foes, it would only set to confirm his true identity to Blagden. After all, the fates of all Pendragons were entwined with the faeries since Uther had made an enemy out of their most influential Queen. The outcome of this battle would show if Eragon Shadeslayer was truly the missing Prince Amhar or not.

After all, it was because of one certain young Pendragon that Blagden was stranded in Alagaesia against his will. When Merlin had come to him that day to innocently request his favor, he had eagerly agreed to help in anyway possible. Being the trusting and oblivious apprentice he had been, Blagden had foolishly sworn his vow in the ancient language, making the promise unbreakable.

Had Blagden known before hand that Merlin's 'request' was more of a direct command to live with arrogant elves in their enchanted forest for decades on end, he would have never agreed in the first place. But he had already dug too deep, and he was stranded in the hole of his own creation. What task was he supposed to accomplish while among a bunch of hardheaded and immortal beings? Thanks to the darling vagueness of his mentor, he hadn't the foggiest idea at the time. In fact, Merlin's own words after the order had been delivered was something like:

_"Sorry about this, Blagden. I really have no choice in the matter. Know that you'll be in Du Weldenvarden for quite a while before your mission turns up. Got to get yourself established among the people of Alagaesia, and so on and so forth. With your longevity, it shouldn't bother you too much. Don't worry about being accepted either, King Evandar is a close friend of mine. He'll make sure the elves don't probe too deep into your past or the reason for your presence amongst them."_

Merlin had then got off on quite a detailed tangent, explaining how he sure how he could successfully infiltrate the elves until the target of his mission came up. _"Oh, chin up, dear boy. Glaring at me won't do much considering that your oaths prevent you from so much as raising a hand against your mentor. Besides, you won't even have to go searching for your objective. It'll bump right into you. Believe me, Blagden, you'll know it when you see it."_

Bitter over his all-but banishment from his life and England, Blagden had brooded amongst the elves well over a century. Confined to his raven form as per terms of his mentor's orders, he had resigned himself to exploring the mysterious depths of Du Weldenvarden and exasperating the short-tempered elves with senseless chatter until they snapped.

Thankfully, the clairvoyance he possessed allowed up to stay up to speed with present matters in England in addition to glimpses into the future. Blagden knew of King Arthur's troubles when it came to keeping his offspring alive past infancy, and of how Merlin sent the final royal heir, Prince Amhar, away for his own safety. Then the young prince had fallen under powerful protection spells to shield him from prying eyes, and Blagden had lost sight of him.

But the white raven had no doubt that Amhar Pendragon had been sent to Alagaesia to be raised in peace until the time was ripe to return his true family and kingdom. And he was the one responsible to make sure the future king got home in one piece without being captured by Galbatorix or meeting some other unfortunate demise.

Then Eragon Shadeslayer and Saphira had arrived in Du Weldenvarden to be tutored by the world's last true dragon and his Rider. Instantly Blagden's mind had jumped to the conclusion that the young man was England's missing Crown Prince, for he was about the same age Prince Amhar would have been.

But the white raven was incapable of proving that. By the time he had first spotted Eragon, the boy's facial features had already been severely altered by the magical bond that linked him to his she-dragon. He didn't have Arthur's signature red hair, or any other trademark Pendragon features. True, his eyes strongly resembled those of Queen Guinevere's. But identification based on iris color alone was unreliable. After all, Eragon Shadeslayer looked more like a human's bastard child with a faerie than the future King of England.

The boy's mannerisms? Those were a different story. Eragon had Arthur's strong sense of justice and unwavering valiance in the face of certain death (The same courage that could easily be dubbed foolish recklessness.) He also possessed the King's accepting and kind nature. However, his impulsiveness and temper were undoubtedly inherited from Guinevere. The perfect blend of the brave and thoughtful ruler with his fiery and passionate wife.

Of course, Blagden wasn't positive on anything. Which was why he had flown to the Spiritwood in the first place, to see if faeries were indeed behind the recent series of peculiar events. Eragon would be drawn to them, of that he had no doubt, but would a sole Rider and his young dragon be able to defeat an entire part of Fey guardsman? Regular ones of their kind depended on numbers for victory, they didn't have such an advantage.

Then again, neither had a twelve-year-old Arthur Pendragon when he had first faced the faeries. Armed with only an iron knife and with only another child for aid, the young boy had stormed the own Queen Morgan's castle in a wild attempt to rescue several of his captive friends. Despite the enormous odds stacked against him, Arthur had succeeded in his mission and returned home alive, the other young rescuer and the hostages his much older half-sister (though he was unaware of it at the time) had captured safely with him.

Pendragon magic was nothing overt or powerful, like the abilities that ran in Igraine's family. No, the magic Arthur had inherited from his father's side was more subtle, more practical than that. It had strengthened his child's body, giving him the power to fight his way past faerie guards in a bid to free the prisoners.

And it would be the presence or absence of that certain magic that would decide whether Eragon would win this battle on his own or not. While he had Saphira and his impressive knowledge of Alagaesian magic on his side, the faeries had far superior talents and sheer numbers. Noble Pendragon or merely the youngest son of Morzan? Such factors of his lineage would determine if Blagden would be forced to intervene on the boy's behalf.

Saphira descended from the sky at that very moment like a monstrous hawk, unleashing a merciless torrent of blue flames from her maw. This initial attack scattered the Fey as they rushed to avoid the burning fire, while some merely raised their hands to form a protective shield. Nevertheless, the she-dragon's distraction provided Eragon sufficient time to make his entrance. Springing from her saddle, the boy unsheathed his sword and lunged at the closest faerie.

Elrohir was prepared for Eragon's attack, and parried his blows with his own spear. Ordinarily the confrontation would have been quick, for it was the faerie that possessed the superior agility and power behind his strikes. Indeed, for while Eragon's sword most likely contained at least traces of iron, the effects on Elrohir were weakened by the overwhelming presence of Fey magic.

But, easy victory was not the case. There was something more to Eragon than met the eye, for the boy managed to slip past Elrohir's defenses and land an incapacitating blow to his side. The first obnoxious faerie guard down for the count, the Dragon Rider charged onto the bridge across the cream lake that lead to the fortress. The candied vigils shed their false appearances and charged, but Eragon was managing to hold his own against them.

While her Rider grappled on the ground, Saphira remained in the air. Bellowing fearsomely, the sapphire beast charged head-on at one of the castle's turrets, another inferno streaming from her mouth. The sheer force of impact must have been unbelievable, for the moment Saphira collided the enchantment that enshrouded the glen crumbled into oblivion. The lake evaporated instantly, the clearing shrinking back down to its proper proportions. While the fortress remained, it was now a common one, its whimsical appearance haven disintegrated into ash.

Staggering to his feet, a very winded and furious but unfortunately living Elrohir clutched at his bleeding side. Gasping for breath, the faerie surveyed the scene of chaos with black eyes that glittered with indescribable malice. Raising the weapon he still clutched, he hurled it with the remainder of his strength directly at Eragon's prone back. The boy reflexively whirled around to deflect the projectile, giving the disgraced Fey all the time they needed to sound their heroic retreat.

_"FALL BACK!" _Elrohir screamed at his fellow guardsman. _"RETURN TO THE OTHERWORLD!"_

With unnatural speed that surpassed that of even the fleet-footed elves, the faeries dashed into their fortress, their injured commander bringing up the rear. When all were securely inside, the castle began to shimmer as the magic began to take effect. Startled by the sudden surge of energy, Saphira and Eragon reeled away just as the fortress vanished into thin air, narrowly avoiding being sucked into the Otherworld themselves. The two gaped at the now vacant spot in absolute shock, unsure of how to react to such an unexpected disappearance.

None of this mattered to Blagden, of course. The white raven was puffed up in pure excitement, dark eyes shining brightly. Were he one hundred and fifty years younger and not possessed an ounce of self-dignity, he would have been bouncing up an down in sheer joy.

_I found him! I found him! By God, I actually found him!_

Giddily flapping down from his tree, the white raven landed in the clearing once occupied by an edible fortress and its gingerbread guardsman. He promptly resumed his human form, his true form without feathers or a beak or talons. Dimly, Blagden was aware that he was grinning like an absolute lunatic, but such petty matters didn't bother him at the moment. Soon he would be _FREE!_

Eragon and Saphira glanced up in surprise, at last noticing the odd white-robed man standing at the edge of the clearing. Perhaps it was his unfortunate resemblance to the Fey, or the manic grin that belonged only on a raving madman, that alarmed them. Either way the she-dragon began to growl warningly while her human gripped his sword in preparation for another fight.

Concentrating upon his spell, Blagden paid no mind to the rather intimidating pair that rested only yards from where he was. His eyes were closed, his mind focusing upon magics he had not called upon in decades. Summoning such power came remarkably easy, as if his magic had missed him over the long years. Strange words flowed subconsciously from his mouth, forming into a potent spell that had he'd been taught by Merlin himself.

The air crackled with energy, almost humming at the power that build up within it. Blagden opened his eyes, giving the stunned Rider and dragon a cheerful wave of farewell. Then the pair vanished, just as the Fey had. With their transportation to the land that needed them above all else, came the deafening sound of an ancient vow breaking. Promise fulfilled, the magical shackles that had bound Blagden to his oaths for so long disintegrated.

At last, after years of servitude to Merlin and many more years indebted to him because of one foolish oath, he was _FREE._

_No more thickheaded Dragon Riders! No more annoying elf queens and having to dodge their spells! No more pretending to be a mere bird in some enchanted forest!_

Then the Spiritwood, once a source of terror and supernatural phenomena to the surrounding villages but no longer, was filled with the sounds of a gleeful magician celebrating his new-found liberation. A gleeful magician that was now inadvertently one of the world's most powerful magicians after the death of his mentor, Merlin.

**Next chapter: In Camelot, many years have passed since their son's disappearance, but both parents have Amhar upon the mind. King Arthur is musing over the prophecy Merlin gave him long ago, while Guinevere finds reminders of her missing child everywhere. And Sir Lancelot has a whole new enemy to defeat. Faeries were one thing, dragons a whole different a story. A... faerie riding upon a dragon mount heading straight for Camelot? Another story entirely.**

**1. Blagden is Merlin's apprentice, the one that got tricked into over a century of waiting just to send one wayward prince and his dragon home. The secret of his longevity? As he said, one sixteenth Fey on his mother's side. Genes like that are strong. Will he have more importance later on? Hell yes. Arthur had his magician. Now Eragon will have one, albeit a thousand times more irritating. Why was he with the elves so long? Merlin wanted to give him time to be trusted and accepted by the elves.**

**2. In this story, elves are the hybrids of humans and elves. They have the powers of the Fey, but on a weaker scale. Yes, their grace and beauty and appearances are watered down versions of the faeries, and only some of them have the characteristic faerie white hair. Before their pact with the dragons, they were merely long-lived instead of immortal. Why do they not acknowledge their lineage? The first 'true' elves (those formed when the pact was created) were proud a-holes that now considered themselves above their mixed ancestry. When those guys died off centuries later, their descendants had no idea of their genetic past and merely assumed there have always been 'pure-blooded' elves. **

**3. Consider faeries in this story to be the super-charged versions of elves, all with white hair and telltale dark eyes. They reside in the realm they call the 'Otherworld' and are extremely powerful creature. Dragons and Riders stood a chance of conquering them only if they were in groups. Powerful as they are, iron is their mortal weakness, though its potency is dulled if many faeries are together, or if the presence of Fey magic is strong. (Or you if you inherited the good ol' Pendragon strength.)**

**4. The candy fortress? What faeries use to lure in unsuspecting children when they're running short of a labor force back home. I'm unsure of this is included in early legends, but is plays a large part in _Once and Future King _when several of a young Arthur's friends are kidnapped by Morgan le Fey and held captive in such a place. Yes, he did indeed break into the fortress and make his half-sister release the prisoners when he was 12 with only an iron knife. **


End file.
